Non-Porous Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

She says: surprise, I'm here.
I'm all yours. A Christmas stocking
has arrived early and wants emptying.
Where are you going?

She's abstinent no longer.
Her hand digging in a black bag
like a rabbit down a hole
pauses, then retreats,
empty-handed, with a matching gaze.
Inside, a guttural groan:
I'm sorry, I don't want this.
Her eyes rock quizzically, then fix on mine.

Wiping the sleep from my midday eyes.
Behind my teeth:
frankly I'm tired, bored and want to hibernate.
Pristine white mold climbs the kitchen wall.
Holes in my sweater, limply sagging.

Let me walk you to your train.
My chest, a non-porous rock.
I'm all wrong for you right now.
Your effervescence
is a foretaste of joy.
I want to quit.
And I did,
and I didn't.