We Are, All The Same

In this street

Of semi-detached houses

Where the makeover

Is the makeover for everyone

In this summer breeze

Of late August Bank Holiday

Where the warm sunshine

Is the warm sunshine for everyone

Across the main road

Into the small, neat café

where a child is named

Named to become everyone

Tight grey jeans

Hips rocking, side to side

An old footballer walks

Walks for everyone

Balance

That this day I should wake

To feel like doing nothing at all

More to the point

That I should feel altogether capable

Of doing absolutely nothing at all

And here we are, at lunchtime

Still with the confidence, and desire

To do nothing, nothing whatsoever

Meanwhile their scoreboard

Ticks along nicely

Mine, in sublime contrast

Remains perfectly still

And so it goes, on, and on

A full afternoon of doing nothing at all

But, can I make it past tea

Does eating afternoon tea, or dinner, count

As doing nothing at all

Then what of the evening

Watching Nordic Murders

On ALL4 with Walter Presents

I would say, most definitely doing nothing

Indeed going perfectly nowhere at all

 

How?

I have a story that I wish to write

But, I don’t know

If I know how to write it

No, I don’t know

Where my vulnerabilities might take me

Sat Outside

Warm days

Fine grasses

Red-brick houses

Slate roofs

Butterfly

Flying

The length

Of the garden

Friday Through Saturday

In this early morning light

After sharing pleasures of the night

To sojourn with second sight

It seems more than could be my right

Rose petals, falling by the fence

Young love, was there any sense

With passions rising to intense

Was there ever any sitting on the fence