Unrhyming Verses

by Jennifer Clarke 

I’m tired of the way you pull the sheets off my mattress
and leave wearing my jacket,
forgetting the painting I’ve given you –
even if it is only the back of a cereal packet
covered in cheap Crayola paints
with bits of brush stuck in the colours
like the dirt from your shoes stuck in my bed.
And I’m tired of the insomnia of laces
criss-crossed in indecision up your legs with zips
like you could just as easily step out of your skin
[with your saint-like bones unhooded]
as write a sonnet,
or overflow the air with song in your pseudo-American accent
using the keyboard you named, loved and abandoned.
I’m tired of you kneeling by my door
under my coats like a cat; arms curled over legs,
spying on me – the sugared almond
in my cream dish of sleep or not of sleep.