They say my love targets children
(my kisses have yet to implode playgrounds),
that I have some spiteful agenda
as if I was the Borg, not an office worker.
When my mother was hospitalized
I’d sit beside the bed, alone
amid the stale piss-whiff and asinine azaleas.
Reassurance has no genitalia.
We need firm hands of either sex to hold.
Daily this blackness is heard: chitinous thoughts
burbling through the radio’s boggy speaker.
They worry at my poison life – what I do
in my own home – those shiny-armoured things.
Put out the bins, usually.