After four days home usually blind rage
and it's fierce
someone wants braining
with the sheet pan
plus the algorithm's in the living room now
unfurling like the town cryer's incoherent scroll
and no-one's special, no-one's going to
be spared that.
Dad comes from a warm place where his
little bottle of jow did not seek a
home in the airing cupboard,
where it rests, waiting now
for his breathing,
heavy with cholesterol,
for the rubbing that will heat it
up in his hands
before my foot is healed
and I must give thanks, really.
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