I step out to an evening’s aura
to West Park’s dark-cut recovery
of trim lawn-strimmed flora
now sliced to a fragrant enquiry
and I reply to a text’s posit:
Have they helped you..
to a conclusion?
Which my stepdaughter
kneads and beats
in a knuckled-down confusion
I give her my finite answer
(as I do to each upset offspring)
I need to move out.. to be kind to..
but each one keeps on asking..
Then I thrashed my clicked walking stick
amongst the white-sat flowers
and then I cracked it on the red bricks
of this house of sucked-off hours