Dickens

my gloved hands purple,
raw while you steam yourself
in the tropics, birdsong;
idle, taking no control


I will not call for you
damn you to hell;  your
mousey ways
and half-truths
ruin me as though
you think I cannot tell,
artful dodger.

I laugh and make imaginary
space for your desk and things
in a room you will never inhabit


as though it is some incentive,
as though
you will fall for it

(hardly).