Last week collapses like a concertina,
with nothing to hold the days apart.
Despite the pressing of my fingers
on the keys, I do not have the art
to make more than wheezing noises,
as air squeezes from my chest
and the whole of next week poises,
waiting for my hands to pull the next
breath; pull a tune out of the air.
Weekend - and a beer stained jukebox
stands silent in a theme bar filled
with poseurs: Wadded socks for cocks
and fake tans orange as grilled
pumpkins. I could insert a pound
and press my fingers on numbered keys
to select a song, but I have found
that music is only a noisy breeze,
which disturbs a forest of groomed hair.
