Toby Goodwin – Writer/Musician
Wringing my hands.
Ringing? Wringing out. Mary always says I’ve got sweet hands, delicate petals. The woman in me finds that both insulting and flattering. The dainty hands of a poet, which tracks. “Look under the couch,” Mary says from the hallway. She’s painting that wall, from wall to corner to wall to ceiling. I’ve been helping, somewhat, mostly moral support, but that’s because I’m meeting Allison today. Aunty Allison. The one who gave me the watch. As if I need watched. A flash; eyes above the cot. I step into the kitchen, the woolly tip of my sock dangling as I go – and I feel it. Wet, damp, the exclusion of dryness making a sponge of the soft material of my woolen sock. I stand morose, staring south. It’s that puddle again…
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