Poem - after Susan Hamston

Flat black stripe on cheap wood,

You flap, or rather you could
But for your fixings.
Plywood forms
You’re teasing - round and yet not round,
Wobbly wheels; first indication.
I feel indicated.
I wobble.
Tablecloth tacked up, dirty and frayed; you aren’t a den anymore.
I can’t make dens anymore.
I don’t see them; I see a tablecloth.
I see a wood panel, blu-tak.

I want to play.
I want to play but
I am weighted, I drag the cloth down.
The paper is just paper;
Tearable.
Terrible.
Black.