The house to myself

 

A day begins afresh:

But it quickly punctures flat

I’m stopped from the off –

Housebound with the cat.

 

The fridge yawns open

Nothing there to raid

Is it time for bed?

Still morning I’m afraid.

 

I flick at a book

And click aimlessly

The Guardian, IAAF

YouTube and the BBC.

 

Like a dog chasing his tail,

And reaching high and low,

I tidy up and clear away:

Where does this thing go?

 

Must I cook, just for me? –

Dinner, then washing up

The radio for company.

Then coffee. Which cup?

 

Time accumulates upon me,

It forces everything out,

And when there’s nothing left

That’s what I write about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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