Like finding the child you gave up for adoption,
he had years on me.
If I could have wrestled you into a home,
maybe even an engagement,
I might have stood half a chance.
Twenty-one, and I feel like I’m short on time.
Twenty-one! I shouldn’t even know what that is.
Jack Savoretti is competing with Greg Laswell
to make me feel better by making me feel worse,
and the red wine is staining the lips
you used to.
I’d wash my hair but it never did anything for me clean.
To be civil?
That’s all I was abandoned for?
I’ve decided the wallpaper on my phone
is a prophecy:
a sunset over an icy road
and a slip into darkness around the corner.
In yellow light and open curtains,
Jack wins and plucks celebratory F
and heartstrings again.
Then I read this back and discover
it has no structure,
and I realise it’s the most apt piece I’ve ever penned.