by Nick Gisburne
Without the faintest recollection why,
She wakes at dawn beside another head.
An hour in the oven, just to dry,
Then quickly to its resting place, her shed.
A mix of men and women, young and old,
Each noggin is anointed with a name,
And, even in the wildest winter cold,
She adds another, daily, without shame.
A dozen, then a hundred, more and more,
The heads are filed and fitted to the stack.
Her shelves, already buckling the floor,
Are recklessly extended, front and back.
When Christmas comes, she finds no human head,
Just two policemen, standing by the bed.
