Poem: Holes

A poem about a type of loss

If purple had a smell it would be
woollen and wet — and that’s
all I said

but the guys round the table
went all Kookaburra
and the girl left

so the lads laughed even more
as the next joint was rolled
and in a fug of damp socks

they all tried their best
to remember, while I just
hoped to forget