the library ticket

The unlubricated machinery of unsound mind
refuses to grind. The collected grist of random
recollections; those undigested inventories of
the recently dead and just departing. It
seizes on threads - jitterbugging cousins
dolled up in shrouds - the unwashed
laundry of unsuspecting honeymooners,
and screams out for a drink. It scrapes and
jams, fits and starts; a backfiring of all the do's
and don'ts, the jigsaw fruits of monkey
puzzle trees throwing shadows on the landing
in the full bloom of forgetting, of turning
out the lights. 60 watt bulbs dimming then
imploding. Tried patterns failing. Limpet
mouths on wounds already purpling. Bruised.

The only addiction worth hanging on to
is that one you left standing in the closet. A
jumble of hooks. A tangle of skins. Unreturned
books on a library ticket. Unpaid fines.