rehab

she couldn’t go to rehab the cat needed to be fed

she’d go next week when the sky would be blue

when the delicate hues of green 

could be seen among the trees

and the baby smiled silently in the crib

 

she couldn’t start the treatment cos she’d bought that piece of steak

she’d start on the first when the rabbits jump in threes

when the number she was waiting for

leapt out the frying pan

and the puppy licked the bone contentedly

 

she realised she’d never get well or get clean

listening to Marianne Faithful whilst dusting empty bottles

she slumped into the chair as she

dived into further depression

and more bottles that were empty cried quietly for her

 

she was a dirty little maggot so the neighbours said last week

to all the journos and anyone who’d listen

dead for days with no way

of telling cos she smelt rotten anyways

and the baby, cat and pup died too

One comment

  1. Yeah, I was doing so bad in nanowrimo that I collated my work to date. I have 94000 words written in a year. I can do this. I need to get organised. Someone said use Scrivener but it doesn’t rock my world.

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