i. Putting Teesside in a Matchbox


Today's post:
a bill, a review, a late valentine,
from someone who forgot he loved me,
and a commission:
Teesside in a Matchbox
Teesside is small, crushed, manufactured,
it's a silverfish of metal,
made with washers, nuts, a screw, and
yes, filaments of that copper wire,
the sort that stabs you
when you're fiddling in a plug.

My hair in a towel,
scrubbing the stains from the teapot,
I wonder who could have made this still thing
that's essence is movement?
A man it says, camp-follower
of the moulting, clanking, tube-legged
factory-beasts of Teesside.

A pause surrounding the object on the table,
Is it an invasion of this women's house,
sending something made of industry,
constructed, through the door?

Simpler,
what sort of a gift?
what sort of a token?
A small boy shows a dead insect,
a grown man wraps a box of black magic,
Who sends an attempt at creating life?
Who is this clay-footed god?

I tuck the commission in my bag,
it's become a watch, strapped,
square bones around a round,
fluid and fleshed wrist,

the ticking's begun.