My bedroom is grey.
The light filters through
blinds,
but the rays
lack sustenance.
Three of my five windows are open,
sitting tightly on the safety latches.
Gin Wigmore
wafts through the slight gaps.
During the chorus’ you join in
to whine along.
Don’t stop doing what you do.
Bacon suffers under your tuneless,
muteless humming.
And the white ute
Dave roars up the driveway in
can’t silence you.
Save me, why don’t you save me?
Sheets flutter in time with
the sweet ukulele
as you flick
the white around the room,
making the bed
for my absent brother.
You make a lady change her heartbeat.
Slammed doors
and John’s
clunking crutches
are blown out the window
with your fake morning kisses.
I’m flying so far away, that’s all I wanna do.
You’re voice is
too sharp
too loud
too high
too soft.
But anything is
better than grey.
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