S.O.S.
Inside we each have
two radios
the small one
just below the liver
the other where ‘World’s oldest dog Maggie dies peacefully, sleeping in her basket‘ used to be
tights lose their atoms to the friction of my thighs
I buy new ones
same/time
OK
OK
OK
the blood on your knees times a number
your meat roughly equivalent to
seventy-eight full chicken breasts
three Maggies
the radios only pick up one
station which plays the voices of
ghosts over and over
you hear: left turn into traffic
brass band head rush
ice clink
rocks glass
I hear: a series of Morse code blinks
mute mother
dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot
I’m not alone in my body today