Plastic comb from a Christmas cracker, I call it plastic because that's what it is, Elastic throne for the lazy last slacker,
I call it last, that's why there's one and only, A crown on a plastic rattle, lofty and lonely, Comfort crest, and my head that's where nothing is.
A small coin from a group of change, Grouping together memories like land, A ball point for a stoop un-strange,
Stooping lower connecting with the dirt, A subtly deep fiddling with the plain and curt, A length of thought, a length of my right hand. A wished bone hiding in the sand.