Dribble

I could be a priest,
or a cockerel, a joke,
a clumsy mime. Only

sleep-walking or urgent
phone calls disturb each
night time. I'd paint

if I had the hands,
lay bricks for bridges, or
gamble with the peasants.

If I walked the street,
let one laugh slip, I
would have to hear the eye

bark back, and blink.
I've broken promises, tied
knots, heard voices, stepped

on cracks. I'm meant to
understand the words
that dribble from these lips.