Coming back I keep a running total:
The flies that hit the windscreen,
And are drawn painlessly across the glass,
Leaving behind a clear, brown smear, a final token,
Which will not be removed by the wiper blades.
Funny because
Richard will pay to have the car washed
So I smile and refuse to explain the joke.
At home I
Angle my black hat on the door's corner,
Cut my thumb on a tin of catfood,
A shallow cut.
The black brim of my hat sways like laughter.
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