There is nothing but the shape

There is nothing but the shape

It is empty

Of all but hollow fibres

Floating in a glass

Half full of sour milk

No kindness is to small

To be served as an afterthought

It is the blanket

Wrapped around the shoulders

Of a hangdog

Expressions are changeable

They are painted

In water colours

Watch how they bleed

Follow the lines

Of their retreat

Into storied creases

Joining their fold

At the beginning and end

Of the page

There is a hint of brightness

A lightness in the weight

Of the sky

Even as shadows lengthen

It is written in the

Print of a pillowcase

As it gathers dust

In an empty room

A formless memory

Gathering substance

In a turned down bed

The book never read

Beware the rabid dog

With its sharp teeth

Finely drawn

Overreaching itself

In its desire to blacken

The whiteness

Of a cotton sheet

With its bloodlust

Taking away the joy

Be doleful

Even a Sloth

Slows down

Sink into the old armchair

Feel every single tingle

Hear the pop

Of old joints

The firing of pain transmitters

The agony of receptors

As frozen hips roar

It will be as much a burden

For you

As it would be for me

It is a matter of degree

Stop apologising

Even happy people

Get their turn

To feel a little sad.