I am coming down
when I finish
this trouble I am
troubled by making.
Or is that doubt
talking in a voice
like ice breaking.
It’s not disappearing
it’s conjuring
more water.
The patients
have patience,
making wills, missing
the old well days
in the flatlands
where I for instance
carried a messenger
bag though rarely
a message.
We dandle
our consumption.
We’re supposed
to get better
but it’s better
to stay sick.
Though bored
of my gadget
and blue dinners
and seeing the screen
saved I log in
I slog on I plug
my ears I pick
a password
no one can guess:
I would like
a better reason
to think.
Is anyone made over
when the makeover
is made? You
can have a treatment and
a treat too and the view
is always changing
and there’s always
something new.
In her carriage
the baby rubs bald
the back of her head
with turning to see.