Dry Rot

Maybe we twisted some tendon wrong
in a hole back there, tangled hair
in the thorns and ripped a wig-full.

Maybe we saw the news, said it was
terrible, or stared into the earth
of our allotments, and dug spades in,

careful not to puncture anything
too fragile. Maybe we saw an eye-full,
cut our lip on the lip of the cup, dripped

a little drop of red onto the wood.
Maybe our laughter tumbled, spat
over the brim into a jumble of leopard

spots, brambles, lamb's brains, card
games, stupid gambles, signs, stigmata.
Maybe the rules were not clear-cut.

Maybe our cars were found in ditches,
stripped for parts, or maybe we died
of bad consciences, or weak hearts.

Maybe we asked too much, shouted curses
at our benefactors, threw childish glances
and split, spent our money, then threw

a fit, spilling guts, brains, debris, loose
change, saliva, semen, plasma, bile,
all into an assorted sack of dross.

Or maybe we learnt who was boss,
choked on cough drops, tightened up
our ties, top-notch, and learnt never
to be surprised.
                                    Maybe, eventually,
we all crumbled, succumbed to dry rot.