An etched crystal moon
and shadow detailed hills
witness me at the market
parking so badly, there.
That Dad says
"You couldn't park your arse in an armchair"
Which, of course, unravels me, and the world.
Yarn spools out from all around.
The streets become clogged with multi-coloured threads.
Each one named. So that I can see each one
unrolling from me, undone
by a memory's remark.
Two years gone and I still
wonder about what went on.
What he meant and how mean I was.
And will it be the same for me?