So he goes from tree, to telegraph pole,
to fencepost, nailing or tacking up
his badly spelt posters.
'Mising: 1 blovid ketal
reward if fond'
The hermit nervously holding nails
between his lips like a shoemaker
while he hammers another one to a wall.
He pictures his kettle sitting alone
in a skip under a caul of grime,
capped with hoarfrost,
unloved, perishing.
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