A burst of Ketchup
creates some new dreads.
I pick the dried sweetness off my neck,
peel the darkening film from my specs.
My right index finger
scratches at the condiment scab-
dead central on the grey wool.
Three serviettes could only ever smear
my Heinz Haemorrhage.

After the shock,

we laugh over pink and white measures
and peas without moisture.
It was the closest I have ever been to being murdered
……and the boys on the television play on.
Once again reunited with Poetry Workbook after move. It keeps hiding from me.


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