"Eight is my favourite number"

TICK TICK TIME

Kick my shins
Comb my hair
I was never my father's son
He was a man built of concrete words

I'm but a boy
With hollow vowels in maroon holsters
Standing so still
Feeling so small
With my eyes wide
Looking up

Reflections of clouds
At eight years old
In the whites
The whites
Of my eyes

Oh Isobel where have you been?
I've been worried sick
You've been so sick

The sky is falling darling
We're all safe now
We needn't worry
Look how bright the blue is

My black and purple shins
The blue and white sky
Your bright red being
Brought the breath in
I can
Taste it

The purple
The red
The black
The words
The blue
The nerve
The blue
The eyes
Your eyes

Your eyes
Are all painted Sinatra blue