It is an act of communion, that slip
posted in a tin-black mouth.
The don’t-blame-me defence for years to come.
Once perhaps the everyday note to milkmen,
under empty bottle, weighed down by habit.
Its order sometimes blurred by rain.
Or maybe a love letter’s captive thought,
long pondered, with aching hope sent off.
The entreaty hidden beneath a doormat.
Or just the random prejudice of a moment,
clutched at, like a tabloid spread
in sudden ill-wind swept up and flailing.
Then, within a flimsy booth, set down
in two fleeting strokes of thick, soft pencil:
our only choice, this folded curse.
