He likes children, even these ones,
full-bladdered, their uniforms rubbing static
against the cage, failing to take seriously
this fearful psychic mortician, wearing his skull
on the outside, sockets, six foot deep.
He has no room to pitch his wings
which they think is funny, like Carry On Carrion,
in fits as they drift towards the peacock.
He finds comfort in knowing he’ll see them again
as they file away in a crocodile.
Content from our partners
Give a gift subscription to the New Statesman this Christmas from just £49
Related
