Queen of Coco-Pops
Soon she’ll be released from here,
her faded, smutty chair.
Blowflies halo stained-glass wings
in dusk’s green gloom; smoke banks, clings.
Lank strands of yellow-stained hair,
Unwashed, filthy, old attire.
Patches of plum-dark bruised skin.
Cereal falls from her sour grin.
My deaf Queen of coco pops
dabs and blindly mops her chops
sparks up and swears daylight away
pads at stubs with fingertips.
Swart of blowflies sense decay
Mum’s coming their way