It Is. Poem by Wade Harlaine

It Is.



It’s a knife in my spine antagonising
or a poem tap dancing on my tongue not materialising
It’s the railway engineer barring my chariot
leaving me on a slippery platform of decadency
or my dealer on holiday discounting my dependency.
It’s the post man that never comes
the inland revenues awful sums.
It’s the cancer in my lung
the summer walk then damn I’m stung.
It’s the tear that puts out my winter fire
or the act that makes my love a liar
It’s the ticking of the clock
the non stick coming off the wok
It’s the meter running out
It’s my pocket that has nought
but most yes most of all it’s you.

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