(The nursing of a relative).
Your flaccid sausage cock slaps me around the ear
as I slide damp pants beneath your arse,
and your watery words,
sorry! sorry! sorry! spill on my head
like harmless rubber bricks
along with your tears.
Life’s lottery brought your numbers up
but took your legs as the ticket price.
So we both begin here, base camp one,
the brooding mountain,
visible only to our punctured imaginations,
with you in the harness, me on the rope
we start the climb.
© Graham Sherwood 01/2012
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