By Colin Lichen
His dreams produce a muffled rattle,
trapped in a French ratpack box that
John Major (‘not the First Minister’) gave him
in thanks for some words that might have saved his life:
a compass indicating the right direction
only occasionally; him happy
to follow without correction;
a packet that would make tea the colour of gravy,
though few ever did, its flavour not dissimilar;
a toilet-tissue totaliser; a catapult (broken),
and a white plastic spoonman – welded with Zippo
over supper (don’t ask), and hand-patterned packets
wherein once lay 7.62mm diameter confirmations
of whether or not one’s god was real (none of them were).
And of course the Tocat.
The lifesaving, death-dealing Tocat.
Pretty much everything ends up in a box.