Let’s talk. Somewhere neutral. Somewhere behind
dirt-stained windows or in the pot-holed corner
of a car park or the frozen veg section of the supermarket
between beans and peas, or a boarded-up building where
rat droppings and used condoms can’t be considered
reliable witnesses.
It was a catastrophe. No one else needs to know.
We’ll pawn the rings; donate the six crockpots
and unopened sheet sets to Goodwill. You can have the bed
you’ve shared with the dog for the last five years, and take your father
and his caravan with you. Let’s toss for the cat. Heads to me
and tails to me too.
Let’s stay friends, or rather, let’s become friends,
or was the toaster I threw at you across the kitchen a week ago
the last straw? I watched it miss your head by a pubic hair;
heard you suck down anger hot as a Carolina Reaper. Sorry
leapt into my mouth – swallowed – spat back up.
Blow flies can smell death up to five miles away
but it’s said we can’t smell our own stink.
This time of year the heat in Italy
is a snakeskin stuck to a desert highway.
Tell them all that’s where I am. I’ll send postcards
and by the time they’ve worked it out
the ink will have dried and faded on good riddance.
