You never were a careful shadow. When the sky was a cliche
you’d play chicken on the motorway in front of cars with tinted windows,
steal other peoples’ taxis in the rain. You’d leave lights on and the taps running,
burn the toast, lose cards & keys & wake up on sombody else’s couch
with a jack-hammer headache and no idea what happened,
how the hell you got there or whose t-shirt you were wearing.
After the obligatory fumbled foghorn coffee, slip out
through the back door into early morning, creep back up the stairs
& rub soap into the soles of our shoes, & hope nobody noticed.
– it’s a poem by my flat-mate, Anthony, which is sort of about me, which is why it’s up here. What do you think?