Collar starched and the holly fixed
blueprints of the table settings,
shape and form, the veil over
so much horror, and
unquestioning commitment
for what's appropriate,
my theocracy, the stinger trope
reaching through the soil
for my ankles, then my hair,
subtitling the hum of my
arguments with the ghost echoes
of school corridors,
in the knowledge
I'll never know who played
the Last Post year after year,
teachers bowed
in cloaks as absurd
as mascots caught in
the one minute silence.
No comments:
Post a Comment