Sitting with Tom on the
Musty old green couch
Smells of dog
Old dogs, green dogs.
He throws me his
Matches, they sail across
Slow missiles in the dust
I can see I will not
Catch them.
They limply bounce
On the sofa and fall
Down the gaping maw.
I do not want to think
What’s back there
But I do and it is teeth,
Sharp broken springs, rusty
Needles, melted Chewits and
Hairy adhesive stickers.
I shiver and brave it
I touch
Matches and plastic
‘Your glasses Tom’.
Lost for months; he’s been
Short-eyed for years.
I throw them and somehow
He makes the catch and
Puts them on.
He looks out the window
And takes them off,
‘The end of my nose is
Far enough.’
