blanket me in favour

I was listening to Patti Smith

and the flowers were semi-erect

sad for paper petals

I noticed my hands were those of my mother’s

and the control was my father’s

I was waiting for Monday to turn black

like the under belly of a blind slat

I was consciously letting time go

it was never mine

I had nothing to guide me

No light or dove

hence i was waiting

maybe to cry

maybe to die

maybe for an angel of androgyny

Here at a desk holding photos of strangers

and ghosts of great Aunties

who fed Lions and who wept amongst the vegetables

the fate of us all