What I Am

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. I am a foot stool unvarnished, one leg uneven, rarely used, a penny farthing holding up traffic, out of time and season, a pop song, mimed. I am 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-