I spend August burning

toast gazing at a plateful of blue

sky beyond the kitchen window

piercing joy of a filthy tennis ball

soaring toward the net

curtains where I wait

for the doorbell chime

with the promise of playing out

turning cartwheels in the touchy air

peals of laughter at the playground

instead of sliding downstairs bruised

knees wrapped in threadbare sheets

eye holes cut I ward off cellar specters

throw conkers at next door’s gnomes

blistered fingers from our rusted

jungle gym at teatime

the street reveals its wounds

grasshoppers thrum I chase

the last weeks thin listen

for the thwack of the neon ball

its owner vanished back indoors

I find a field mouse dead behind the stove

tiny paws curled tight pink eyes bulge

my heart skips kiss its matted fur

promise to love it

when no-one else will touch it