Old Wednesday

The grey man
Slowly shook his head
My imperfect soul
Will vouch for me
– Me and Shakespeare 
Lost my ticket, somewhere 
Pockets turned out
Like elephant ears
Quite rude
Banging on the cold glass door
Only two allowed
In the waiting room
We are 
On Wednesday afternoons
The sky criss-crossed by snails
The phlebotomist says
The blood coming out
Makes a hissing sound
A minuscule amount, but
Enough for tinnitus 
Feeling quite deflated
Morning birds make lopsided croupier calls
The breaking cloud throws gold coins beneath their beaks
Confused at the taste
There is a spiral
In cat’s fur
Constellations warm
Beneath your hand
With the musk scent
Of rising static  
A brief, intoxicated calm