Please, these interrogations must stop,
by James McLain
they make me ill.
Why must you always ask that?
I cannot recall, where they came from.
You said, they are all pink?
All of them? Isn't that a bit odd, do you not think?
Really all of them? ..I just do not know.
After I leave work and go to the pub, all I remember
are these conversations with you, each morning.
I just dont recollect, recalling those movements, in you.