instep rises with each elbow-heavy scrub — filthy mop across
the grey — grey tiles underheel somehow wet and clean, the sap drying.
hidden in the bushes, field notes
comments on the subject’s patience, its hand
work, sloppy, effective, paid, the years of
cutting — subject puts its tongue to the flithy lips
of the shop’s slop bucket
now, the subject, rocking on the balls of its feet — like a man waiting for a crocodile —
in the tacky grey grout, all gut & regret passion extinguished by
i’m thinking, but not writing.
subject dashes out the back door