A blue moon: I won’t rise
From my unsettled-bed:
This Parkinson’s ‘thing’ on me,
Wishing me dead.
The rest of the month,
Each morning is cracked,
By my working ethic.
I could be ‘sacked’.
But I create alone,
In a stove-stoked shed:
Drawing the world,
Out of my head.
The Parkinson’s ‘thing’,
Lifts in these times:
So I submit more
To long-designed lines.