Whatever you want

This poem can become anything you want -

a weed in a crack of grey cement,

a communication device, upfront

grey screen black buttons correctly present

cool cheeks for patting, and it can be

a hollowed out treecave childhood haunts,

lined with fallen leaves of seasonality.

Poems shape-shift, like humans, like water takes

up the curves and stems of its glass;

don’t be misled by the metre, this makes

a ring of fire around woven green grass

and it naps itself into cloth, a soft wipe

for creased foreheads, tired palms, when nothing breaks

the gaunt-mongrel, monotonous stare of life.