You are burnt sienna stuck to a blanket,
raw umber on the doctor’s gloved finger,
a secret ochre on peach coloured triple-ply.
You are the untouchable
turd at the end of a stick,
protesting dirtily.
Soil of soiled underpants,
threatening to collide with a fan,
a happening in nappies.
You are the word at the brunt,
and the rising spires left
by dogs; impasto
in the tread of my shoe,
printed on carpet.
You are the peeping brown crayon,
solar eclipsing,
and the toad, dumped
in a porcelain hole,
never going home.
I sprinkle you with
hundreds and thousands
award you each
a union jack
on a cocktail-stick.
You are the movement
and the mythic brick.
O happy is the pig in you!
2003