Last Night
I dreamt that Tim Key
was in an advert for Grolsch
there was a Miliband in space
and you were in the back garden
retching up a kitchen.
You coughed up the spoons without a problem
tinkling into the flowerbed
where they bounced, for a moment,
like landed fish.
But the appliances caused you grief
and you braced and grunted
as you heaved a fridge-freezer onto the lawn.
I crossed my fingers that the oven would be electric.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ I said, as you coughed a rusted gas range
onto the grass.
You could tell I was inauthentic -
reading from the litany of vague praise
reserved
for other people’s hideous children -
and asked me to go inside.
‘I’ll finish up alone,’ you said
And you did.
And I woke with the feeling that you would hold this against me forever.
