Cleaning the bathroom
I find dinosaurs that have gathered near the sink
with a collection of pebbles and driftwood,
glance at that painting
of a man I do not know
like a coloured bribe. Guilt-edged.
Earlier, there was smoked salmon
laid lovingly on a crumpet and
consumed in silence
although true silence
is seldom ever achieved.
There’s the inner voice
that whispers just below the surface
as I scrub the brontosaurus,
like pipes or fossils
a sound, waiting to be found,
ball ends of sentences snapping into sockets.
I rinse my hands
watching my words disappear behind the whorl
telling their own short stories
as they rumble away.
Another crumpet, I think.