Behind the wire
Eddie Mack
with his bristle broom
whistles time out here
till the sun goes down,
sweeps shit into piles
and leaves it.
He thinks I’m his partner for life.
He thinks I’m attached. WRONG.
I see his rabbit shit shoes
IN PASSING. He’s food -
a trolley of greens, a sack
of bad fruit. THAT’S ALL.
Woman next door squeals,
“Salad stuffs, rabbit”.
Pokes a carrot through fence
at ten rabbits high. What she
think I am, a performing seal?
Eddie at work now
back door closed. I squat
in the yard, pick over garbage,
drowse on life and
hot sweet tumbles.
Back there behind the wire
Blue-Blue, Shiney and Small wait,
bushy tailed and hunker high
in lush sweet grass.
Oh, my red eyes water
for those three good girls -
I don’t get to make contact.
“Too many rabbits already,”
says Eddie.
Page(s) 44
magazine list
- Features
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- 14
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Fabric
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- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Matter
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- Monkey Kettle
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- North, The
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- Obsessed with pipework
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
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- Quarto
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- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
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- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
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- Ugly Tree, The
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