‘And do you think people are talking
about you on the TV?’ I croak ‘No’,
throat stripped by the grey snake they sent
down to suck the deathwish out of me.
He could be a newsreader, this ironic doctor
shielded by a desk; frost moustache aligned
with postbox mouth. Red when shut,
black when open. Reflecting my spectrum.
A gnarled part of me wants to ram
something too big in that black hole
and watch it fill with red. But more of me
is carried on Valium contrails, ghosted out
against a veil of dead stars that still shine.
‘And do you think the washing machine
is a spaceship?’ I wish I did think that.
I think I could be one myself –
a metal vessel spun across the universe,
burning up on this re-entry.