What I Am
a windmill, dilapidated but still rotating, creaking,
Lake Windermere off season, quiet and autumnal,
a tooth ache throbbing, an irritation, black decay inside.
a foot stool unvarnished, one leg uneven, rarely used,
a penny farthing holding up traffic, out of time and season,
a pop song, mimed.
an apple, red amongst a bowl of green.
I am one line short of a verse.
I am a letter unopened and unread,
returned to s-
Copyright © Thomas Harrison | Year Posted 2021
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