The past is all over me like a rash
like an ache
I'm in school uniform,
I'm in Doc Martens,
I'm crossing the road at the lights near that flat,
waiting for the postman day after day in another,
running down three flights of stairs
to see what he has brought me,
waiting for my mother, in a house I scarcely remember,
to return from hospital to pick me up,
which she can't.
This Wednesday in March must be about my 200th.
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