A small white dog
Who was once a Hindu boy
Crawled inside a washing machine and fell asleep.
It tossed and rotated him
Filling his ears with suddy soap
And as the water whirled,
The dog became the boy again.
He stepped from the machine
And gave a little shake
No dust on his feet, no grit in his eye
Minus the burden of his clothes.
An Old Friend
I remember Rachel Carrington
Large-breasted in her school blazer
Blonde hair resting on her shoulders
Skirt turned over at the waistband
Engineered to expose nylon thighs;
All the boys knew they would.
They say she had one breast reconstructed;
You say they don’t match
As you fall off your stool in the bar.
Concerned drinkers jump down to haul you up.
Bewildered and wide-eyed
Your blotched face
Under its cropped white hair
Sits back on its seat.
‘You must come round for brunch’
You slur through missing teeth.
Your glasses fall in the road;
You follow them.
I help you up.
Your house is scented with damp and joss sticks
Yesterday’s takeaway overflows the lid-lifted bin
Cigarette butts gather outside the back door,
‘You and me’ you say
‘We used to dance together. Do you remember?’