I’m thinking of those days that Miss Moxy
called in, Friday tea-times. She’s so small,
such a tiny disheveled blackbird.
Where is your nest? What dark tree
has bestowed you onto this world of fumes
and white canaries? She
grips my wrist, as usual. I like her
Terror of Hell, her fervor and the Message.
I listen and know the script. He died for me,
and wants me to go to Sunday School;
wants me to go on the annual coach trip
to a sour Welsh town. He encourages me
with hot chocolate and digestive biscuits.

I feel positive. I will! I will! be saved!
I love sweet things, clouds tinged with blue sugar,
coconut angels, and Welsh Cakes.

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