I’m over here – in the hearth – sitting in the fireplace, in the flames, atop the crackling wood. I’ll whisper or I’ll shout your name as the glow of the logs oranges my skin. The sap bubbles all about me, the pine cones pop, but still I cannot raise a heat. Oh, if only you could see me now, you would not believe.
They put a picture of me on the label of every bottle, but I don’t think it looks like me. They got me saying, gizza grin – like what they think I’d say it like. They got me in a get-up; fancy cravat, brocade waistcoat, tricorn hat. I do look happy as an apple in that picture, but I tell you, see, I ain’t so happy, over here, what with being dead and all. Or whatever this is meant to be – sitting in the fireplace, looking out. I’m also up here, in the cobwebbed curtain rail, close to the aperture, in the keyhole, at the bottom of your glass. I’m at the dartboard, beneath the wire, in the dust on the varnished bar, beside you at the pissoir.
And I’m looking for myself in the mirror, any mirror. I’m cold as mackerel, see.