Number fourteen is shaky. Of course nearly midway in and the work is piling up. Cue a headache followed by painkillers. I had a stab at writing first thing at 7am in my notebook. That's where all the writing, or at least the fleshing out, takes place. The title is randomly taken from a page in a book.
And We Know Not Where You're Hiding
we search under claw marked tables
and chewed up chairs
between the sides of a couch
look inside chipboard cupboards
where a clutter of skeletons
share stories over tea
We climb up black and white piano staircase
stomp out Wagner and wear holes
of worry in our trousers.
We check under the bed
looking for tell tale signs of a creature
who left behind a lock of hair
or a stitch of clothing.
And we take off our shoes
nest in front of the television
flick through channels
searching for some remnants of you
the screen wears holes in our eyes
where memories of you rest
like a mouse snug in its house.