Poems by Michael Gould
page 17 of Tarot #2
In the café
where one endures strangers’ stares
under a fluorescent glare
things have finally started to gel
as I nibble round the hole
of a lump of sugary deep-fried dough.
I’m thinking, I can see now
I can see the light, and I’m knowing
that everything will be alright
in my sad madness
as the last sane person
on the planet.