I cut my thumb.

The blood whispered,

through the quick slit,

Then shouted in a slow drip.

Others must have heard,

What my cut said.

Brows raised as eyes saw red.

Someone offered me a handkerchief,

A mucus free, fashion accessory.

But I waved it away with my clean hand,

smiled appreciatively,

and silenced my angry mouth

with my thumb.

EASY. OFF. BAM! (a poem hating on reality television)

Oh, the toilet door.

The colour,

the design,

so out of place,

in our house.

Ignore the bathroom floor.

It feels like a renovation –

A sunday, monday installation.

From a time when the TV closed at 3,

and too many,

and too much,

was still…

just a bad dream.


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