Thursday, 26 April 2012

NaPoWriMo 19/4

The reception is all colours,
garish chairs like cherry toms,
tiles squeak silver.
In a vase of fake flowers
grit is bleached, washed
onto eye-shaped table
like glaucoma.
Turquoise blots drip
perfect drips down
cubes of cardboard.
A green fluffball with eyes
swollen like babies heads
is set for table tennis.
A jar of sweets, 
lonesome wrappers.
Just a roll of thick,
black liquorice remains.

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