Foetal fold tumble, cast-iron stairs, coal scuttle rubbish clanging silence then thud skid of snow. I forgot to twist cat-like in the air. Fuck shit piss wank Ow! Pick up detritus and lob it in da bin.
Limp back up to the flat. Skid past avoiding his not-shouting-back facing the kitchen glass-fronted cupboards (where Ma kept her purse that I later robbed for transfer stickers), next to the twin tub that the vicious bastard never used tongs in. Through the door that would smash bleed my sister’s hand (it wasn’t my fault!). Down the long-flocked corridor, past the bog where the mice and cockroaches also got slippered for making noise. Into the shitting room (the lounge was for Sundays, priests and lingering deaths):
Ma says it’s not broken,
Just lavender purply-blue.
Butter applied to change
Da hue.
Would she have done the same for a burn?
