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Your arms look so tired.
As if you’ve been carrying
heavy shopping bags home.
I would’ve helped if I’d known.
I want to decipher flagging arms,
why you’re sometimes spread,
sometimes pointing at carpet.
I should watch more closely.
You are always presentable:
lipstick on before you nip out
to fetch a sunday newspaper,
hair up to take out rubbish.
I want to hold your wrists
tight to take the weight.
If you didn’t look so tired
I’d dance you round the room.
You’re drawn into the corners
of my notebook. I flick the pages
to see you windmill. I can always
rub you out when you’re wrong.
Semaphore was a strange way
to communicate the message
I’ve diligently translated:
“Please stop watching from bushes”.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
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