On Dogwood Drive
Max
looked at the sign, read Dogleg Drive
And
so it proved to be. It was only later he
found
he
needed new spectacles. The eyes connive
to
lie more often these days, even the sound
of
the waves come across as broken wire
cut
through, the electricity racing along
like
buckets of water seeping out of a tyre.
His
feet at least make the music of a song
called
Creaking Shoes, he heard many years
before
he became a clown, sitting at the desk
where
he processed insurance claims, tears
of
clients fizzing down the line, their chest
thumping. At least Max thought it was a thump.
He
can never be sure of anything in life.
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