Old Lack, dressed in black,
Boney buttons all down her back,
Broken needle stuck in one track, Old Lack.
Absent will, she sucks up dusty juice,
A something nothing cannot show her, Old Lack.
Lost her name so we can’t ask her how;
Forged her face—she can’t smile true now, Old Lack.
Old Lack, warming her hands on ice;
Old Lack, racked by the window pane.
Her eyes reflect reflecting cones of light.
She gulps back black spittle, Old Lack.
Old Lack, missing a shingle up top;
Old Lack, minus a tickle below.
Can’t be helped: her ululating wail
Tonguing night right to the echo’s crack.
Hunched in her one-room flat, she heard me walk,
Sensed my casual shadow passing, Old Lack.
Hates my presence till she’s gagging for it;
Loathes my voice, rapt like a devotee.
Sniffing out some telltale whiff, she creeps
Up close and close to nose her old breath, Old Lack.
Worries words, picking them through and through:
Shrill lilting wins a shilling, Old Lack.
Plots my itinerary like a stalker,
Hugs my image to her like a lover:
I’m the one she never can get over,
Old Lack, Old Lack, Old Lack.
Paul Christian Stevens was born in England but lives in Australia with his wife and numerous children, dogs and citrus trees. He has an Honours degree in English and teaches literature. He edits 
