Monday, 9 March 2009

a poem about being ill and alone in the house aaaaall day.

3p.m creeps in through the cracks
dust crashes
into surfaces, and waits
for movement to stir it.

I step from room
to room
and marvel at the pressure
changing in my ears.

Items left behind
Coat sprawls over armchair
and waits
for arms to claim it.

High ceiling, broken-legged chairs
both equate to
naked lightbulbs.

Dirty kitchen waits like a
pavement hit
to the face;
it might happen.

Open the fridge door
stare at its insides-
three jars of maionnaise;
no milk.

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