skipping nightmare

IMG_0912here comes a figure in a low-slung cart / with long white fingers, coal black heart / hauling his load down the dark city road / he spits to the left, he spits to the right / he stops at the cemetery gates at night / he takes his shovel, takes his sack / he digs all the bones and he throws them in the back / there’s a pelvis, femur, backbone, humerus / tibia, fibula and others too numerous / he works all night by the light of the moon / then he takes all the bones to the catacombs / where he stacks them high, he stacks them low / the skulls in a line so they’re all on show / one is the pastor, one is the clerk / one is the gardener who worked in the park / that’s the doctor, that’s the king / and that’s the end of my skip-ping

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