I want to haunt you when you wake,
remind you when you take your first
forgetful sip of morning tea
you’re better off consuming me.
I want to blow your daily list
behind the sofa, rescue you
from focusing on trivial things,
mute the phone in case it rings
and when you deign to go outside,
intermittent, grinning wide,
I’ll form my face among the clouds
and make the cat from Cheshire proud.
Like Mr Wolf, but more benign,
I’ll show myself at dinnertime
(your claim you never scoff the chips
as truthful as Shakira’s hips),
then just to prove I’m not a creep,
I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep
and levitate above your bed,
but must I wait until I’m dead?
Lawrence Moore has been writing poems – some silly, some serious – since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, Quince Magazine and Green Ink Poetry. @LawrenceMooreUK