When I found it, round on top, holes to ventilate through heat
Rusted to the core of me,
Rusted to the sham
Bolted in the centre.
Bolted, me, through no fixed address.
Among the urban fallows.
Once bouncing along, on the brow of the don…
Now propped against a tree-trunk. Propped.
Only a prop. Props master, puppet master.
Like the cue to enter stage left,
On its bouncy fulcrum, as the jester
But silent, now, no jest to play,
No audience approval.
Brow furrowed. Burro burrowed.
Burro bolted. Centre stage.
Last furrow ploughed a thousand years before.
How many seats? Who played Bottom?
How many Bottoms?