It took a bit of building but it’s beautiful to see
my new duck-egg blue shoe shelf storage unit,
which only on the fourth attempt made it to me.
And the difference that she makes to my bedroom,
creating space and order, gone the heaps of clothes,
which before her advent were everywhere festooned.
Now my night-time furniture runs in cheerful rows,
but I’ll have to keep it tidy to earn my sweet repose.
It’s damp and grey, my nose runs in a post-flu way,
but it’s warm and snug inside my flat
I’m wearing my new waistcoat of ginger tweed
with four pockets which Carmen just freed,
these will more than take care of me.
My phone slides in above mi corazon,
shielding me from losing contact with the times,
while my grandfather’s gold half hunter kinda keeps the hour
in the bottom left artfully flapped embrasure,
the opposite pocket enfolds my snuff box with the inlaid silver anchor
beautifully crafted by some long-dead Victorian sailor.
And all my troubles seem well-spent,
with Harris tailoring comes restraint.
There’s a lot to be said for a comedy club.
Mirth makes way for heaven on earth,
laughter leavens the pain of our birth,
the dark, sticky air repudiates care,
the spot lit acts walk the high wire with flair.
(Or occasionally not when their material is rot).
I am tired beyond belief,
my eyes ache, I’m too tired to sleep.
I need to rest yet cannot find relief,
I’m restless and only want to speak.
I call up people on the telephone
just because I’m all alone.
And count the hours before my rendezvous
for nothing special but a friendly booze.