Ray’s back home after another day on the bins,
and in the kitchen, with a knife in hand he’s ranting,
chanting yet another disconnected mantra.
She has long since learnt to change the channel,
although he monopolises the remote and
his mouth keeps moving, even though the sound is on mute.
But today, the road-kill rabbit has something different to say
as its head rolls, disconnected into the rubbish bin;
its body in a position from the Kama Sutra.
This time his wife doesn’t miss the word cancer
and returns her attention to the entrails on her table.