Heart
My heart is an ornate clock face
with no minute finger,
a Victorian cake with too much jam -
life’s an hour hand munching
its way through my sponge base,
one o’clock, grandfathers premature demise;
two – three my first love, lost.
I cannot, as yet, speak of who ate four to eight.
I know how nine is to be devoured
even before teeth rupture my outer crust.
But twelve?
That rock face we all have to climb,
and beyond? A few crumbs
on a plate to be eaten by tape worms!
Martin Cordrey
Posted over on Applehouse Poetry
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