Poem by

LES WICKS

IDEAS

 A colour box had broken open

while furniture awaited delivery.

What is a husband?

When dies the weather?

They worked at personal growth

the neighbours only saw mindless rutting.

Babies appeared from everywhere.

That need was a cacophony.

If all the missiles have use-by-dates

why don’t they blow up?

It was, after all, chemicals. Nothing matters,

so in pieces both our protagonists still exhibit their wreckage.

Critics were impressed

but no one bought the shards.

Don’t look. Please.