DUO

The gravestones sit all around
And mourn the loss of the church,
Now lying on its back in the grass,
As its roof flaps somewhere overhead,
Carrying its soul to some kind of heaven.

This place is so damn hot
that the glue starts to melt
and the edges of reality peel back,
just a little at first –
like old scabs on the knees
of children in summer shorts –
but as the sand and dust explore
these new nooks and folds,
the edges lose ground
until the corners of things
flap lazily in the dry breeze.
Even the gas-pumps come away
from the choked backdrop,
leaving damp sticky patches
to dry and stain the air.
Usually all that’s needed
is a fresh lick of paste
and the cool breath of one night
to get things back in order.
But sometimes, when the sun
glints off the red aluminium
of a drooping pump,
the breeze becomes a magpie,
taking the bright metal in its beak
and leaving only a grey frame
with a warm adhesive sweat.
It can be replaced – always is –
with something cut out crudely
from the pages of a magazine,
and then business goes on
as usual – always does.
But this is only a small town
and it’s so damn hot here
and it’s only a matter of time
‘til we run out of glue.