April Poems 2016/01

Hoarding

I have a jackdaw mentality
picking up
every little shining thing
a piece of glass;
a weathered draughtsman,
cracked from rain and frost;
a shard of skull from a road traffic accident.
I'm getting better
I remember a girl
despairing of the boot of my car
filled with road-crushed tin cans.
I loved the texture,
the rust,
the peeling paint.
I'm going to build a sculpture one day
but I never did.
Those newspapers you threw away
were for papier mâché
a life-sized model
of a man with a horse's head
that I never made.
And those girls you saw me with
were just shiny;
easily led by compliments
and the blood on my hands wasn't theirs,
I swear.