By Nathan Rodney-Jones
Milk, no sugar, sugar baby. Born to walk,
talk the passing weather into a corner.
Corner the clouds, request downpour.
Outpour the dawn in the bog roll
ballgown lodged under the stairs.
Stare downstream for the shit
to rise again.
I caught a flee, donated a bell jar to its cause,
it would learn to love the glass.
The walls shone, I punished the rug.
I rang the in-laws, lawless small talk
- time I could find behind the settee.
I did not miss the proud pillow.
The phone did not ring, so the day ticked
away and the beige burned through the walls.
It did rain, and just then, the sky was mine.
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