An old pistol found in a field of wheat

I’m a

Breeze,

A scab on

Either knee;

A dead moth in a jam jar,

A three-wheeled toy motor car.

An elastic band too stretched to propel

A balsawood plane into flight or bind

A rolled-up poster in black and white of a famous impressionist painting that you’re

Supposed to colour by number.

A felt-tipped pen with no ink,

An oil stain on the concrete in the garage where a brown car parked,

Once.

A leftover half onion with its paper skin browning,

A wizened apple, shrivelling, frowning;

I’m a mark on the wall where a child once got sick and puked -

Too many sweets,

A piece of bubblegum pressed into the wall between two bricks.

I’m the ball of spit where an insect has frothed a nest between two sticks,

And the circular imprint of a place where a

Woodlouse walked.

I’m a go-go-ghost that dances in the moonlight,

A paisley curtain assuming life-billows in the

Night

A chipped mug that a dead person once sipped from -

Not when they were dead, of course -

That would

Be

Stupid.