01.11.2025

It starts as soft panic, that

Sends me back 

To the sweetness of sleep. 

When finally, I wake

It's at the insistence 

Of my twitching nerves.

The toilet calls

Then coffee, and I'll stand, 

Once again at my

Kitchen window, as the

Electric kettle, lit blue,

Bubbles

I'll assess the world, 

Note the state of the bay,

And whether the pigeons are around today

Then, coffee made, 

I'll adjourn to my chair; maybe

Flip through my phone

Or write a small poem

Anything to ignore the

Insurmountable mess that's

Taken over every 

Inch of my home–—

      "Just, don't look up- keep  

       your

       Eyes on your phone, or

       Something else,

       Something

       manageable, maybe

       Sew another hat

       Or write another poem"

While meanwhile, the piles of 

Detritus grow

And so does the mould that's destroying my home 

And wreaking this hell on my body.