Truth, by Sophie May Coates

I am not a silent poet

You found it on the ledge,
that truth you had heard spoken
but had never seen in the house
or witnessed for yourself
like sasquatch sat at your window.

At first it sat nicely. Content.
Licking itself admiringly
and so you began to lick yourself,
imitating its self adulation
at the fact that you’d caught it.

Then it shuffled in your hand
……………..– caved in on itself –
uncomfortable with its form
like concaved prepubescents
making their way through school corridors.

Less solid than expected, the grip slipped,
it fell through the wood flooring,
to the suspended mess below,
losing all its soft and tactile fur
as it slipped through the cracks in panels.

You still had the licked marks
on your shoulders
a stain on the ledge
and littered hairs on the floor

hopefully you’ll find him again in a magazine
or The Daily Mail.

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