The Rebellion of Mrs Jones

Bright leaf-fall, rusted sky:
the morning rims the lip of earth's
arched and wanton hip.

The force of curing you nips
my mouth shut,
pinches me closed
so I become tight and rackish,
blackening and puckish
keeping joy silent.

So, you won't see me darting
around the city,
collecting bus-stops
names and places like tatty parcels
stuffed into my brain.

You think I'm folding starched linen;
you imagine my perfect hush
lying still against your ironed out air,
unmoved, unmoving.
My shadow a pristine projection
caught between the paste of
wallpaper and world.

I see what really lives where I should:
years of sooty hate,
damp, mildewing ambition.

Bright and brazen leaf-fall, rusted sky;
the morning lathes the question mark
of dense tree-line and day
with my shut-stuck
secret tongue.