Six Lies
The Minotaur tells his sixth lie of the day
to a colleague, seventh to the bus driver,
eighth to himself as he pays for a Twix,
smiling down at the woman behind the till.
His ninth he tells to a pooing dog,
tenth to its shadow, eleventh to its walker
who nods gravely, opening a pink plastic bag.
The Minotaur finds a bench by a fountain
and there he unwraps the Twix, promising
as he peels away the shiny paper
that he won’t eat chocolate again for a month.
A man in a suit and six o’clock stubble is asking
where the nearest train bridge is and are they frequent?
In the corner of the room the radio speaks words
like rips of Velcro. The Minotaur pads the landing,
golden wrapper rustling in his pocket like a bird.
This poem, which appears in Gravy #1, is taken from Joe Carrick-Varty‘s remarkable debut collection More Sky, published by Carcanet. Why not order a copy?
The fabulous illustration is by Lee Hybrid Desire. Explore more of their work at hybriddesire.com
GRAVY 
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