NaPoWriMo #2 Stitch That.

Stitch That

I’d had a go of it,
he’d hooked me up,
chucked me up,
threw me over for the
femme fatale type.

Had blown my brains out with
tedious conversations on the terabyte,

fed him tripe,
fed me tripe –
had no excuse to cancel the milk that night.

So when he showed up,
all apologetic corduroy
and humility turtleneck
to say we’d had a go of it – he’s sick of it.
I felt obliged to stick him with it – stitch that I’m thinking.

Milk bottle bust, landed on the floor
made the opposite of a chandelier,
took his dead-weight to the crypt of the car,
saw milk, and blood, and bile mix
become ambergris

I had done with him, popped those clogs
shod the funeral loafers and bin bag attire,
to drive the motorway and dump cargo –
baggage, clothes and body – into the river.

And as they say, Officer, I never looked back.
It might be this reason, that I failed to check
my blind spot, cut you up with the motor
– blues and twos – hesitated, then signalled to pull over.

.

For this one, I am greatly indebted to Simon Armitage’s ‘Hitcher’, and Chicago’s ‘We both reached for the Gun’.

See you tomorrow.

Fionn Coughlan-Wills.