Carney

Your face set like stone, asks how it’s to be, tell me all you know, chipped away by time, the daily useless commentary, I try to answer that, neck splashed with shaving foam, problems hang around me, stretched out like a photo show, on Sunday's I drink wine, until time freezes, when your turbulent mind, plays tunes that suddenly echo, and dance inside me, struggle now to focus, my house on the train line, the bottom of a road, where I smell the limes, as my body loudly groans, as if carefree, makes an appeal to microphones, watches morning TV?