You’re an oil painting left in a shed to decompose,
The loneliness eating up the corners, pulling at your clothes.
You’re a sunset too bright to photograph for a fool –
The lizards are taking it in but you’re too precious to ridicule.
Your hair is grayer than foggy graves, flowing aimlessly.
Sentiment is a booked club, when I try to check in – no vacancy.
Your suit fits you well but so does the box cutter…
When you hear my knock, you might want to declutter.
Can you feel me entering, can you hear me tripping on steps?
Are you running or this is one of those mornings
Where you so tragically overslept?
-JW
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 