The sound of Carol King’s Tapestry

fills the blue sweet room

and whilst I tell you that I am falling

asleep, that my eyes are feeling

the smarting torture of days

and the end of times,

you sit, cross-legged, but in readiness

for a career in psychotherapy on my

gnawed through and tender seat

and smile, the analyst is in, the twinge

of saying too much and being judged

in rocking horse silence… I ache

too much and I feel like I am being eaten,