The Unicorn
It haunts me, A ghost of an idea, It laughs at me like the whinny of a horse -just a horse- ridden with fleas; Scratches at my skin With all the grace of an itchy woollen jumper Handed down sister to sister then bought from a charity shop; It buts me with its head And sounds out a rhythm with its hooves, It plays on my mind like a keyboard in a shop window – one I cannot afford; My forehead sweats Popcorn misses my mouth My only desire To see the unicorn.
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