Hardly Fetched

A Poem for the Fool

You threw up the golden ball but never saw it land.
Hopeful in a near-future you’ll see that ball drop,
Released from an old god’s hand.

Looking heavenwards, your footpath cleared
With the reaping swing of your seeing cane.
A world walked silkworm. No fathers left

To blame. Walking on. Half a bumcheek
Exposed. Unaware. Before teeth sprout
The beast, at your toes, is a buckled belt

Of appetites, straining for the soft skills
Hung between your legs. Transformer
Envied. The heel-snapping stops

Only when you’ve screwed back in
What you’ve lost. The dog thinks it is
A cock in search of the common fox

Sounding the alarm ‘til the last clucks.
When the laying stops we’re all done for.
Something spherical rolls beneath,

The backfoot kicks it forward;
The cane cuts it short. Your pet is caught
In a suspended state of agony,

In an almost-game of fetch
That will never be.

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