I’ve got nearly seventeen hanging baskets
in the back of my mind
as I reach to find these
Tracing perforated edges,
I feel the lingering fingers of ushers
who tore the paper and
handed back the memory.
Once in a while I leaf through them,
variegated ivy in there,
which makes a nice show,
no interval between the
master, margarita, or drowned man.
I follow the creases on
countless pieces of recollection;
myself, heart splintering from
the intense, ticking script,
my mother, dewy-eyed
watching the Dame with affection.
< This was a poem that I wrote as part of my Creative Writing module in my final year of university. Plenty of theatre references in there for those who are that way inclined!