A quart of milk, brown bread, paper. So he
goes to the garage. He lights his pipe, and
forgets. And remembers life before. She
smiles and calls him dad. How can that be.
And why won’t this key start the car. In and
out of focus. A wisp of memory,
tantalising, just beyond reach. Dry land.
Now where was he. And why won’t this key…
Sometimes he knows it’s not right. Sometimes it
boils like caramel, hot and spitting but
never overflowing. Sometimes he’ll sit
and watch the clouds. Always there, clouds are safe.
And where is his sister, why hasn’t she
rung. If she had died he would know, surely?