Time – not
linear, but
a perforated clock
that bayonets us on a whim.
Invades.
Back then,
the sun stood still.
Kiki Dee’s dungarees
and sun-sizzled shoulders blister.
Before.
Later:
Yorkshire Ripper.
Tehran. Jimmy Carter.
Maggie, of milk and miners renown.
Hindsight.
And me:
pelerine socks,
September-soon sickness,
heart of glass and a loathing of
Mondays.
The past
picks its moments,
a perforated clock,
to turn up uninvited. Haunt.
Gatecrash.
