Who’s idea was it? I think his, as I’d started
wearing everything from Oxfam. Among my finds

collarless shirts.

      Going down to do lights and curtains to fool any burglars Twilight: one after another security lights click on illuminating pathways, steps, empty front lawns, triggered by my benign progress, then, disappointed, click off. The sky is a layer cake...

My thoughts are skittish,
peck at whatever they find.

I flick each whitewash flake
into the bin. Shadows on the walls

Floors are unvacuumed. Spices remain un-alphabetised.
I bless the spaces between the furniture to keep everyone safe. Seven.

Nostalgia as Yogi Bear

Ruminates through you for something tasty,
prizes of the Jellystone mind.

I’m just an ordinary dryad
not like fancy Eurydice   with her sun god father
keep things simple   I say   I don’t have her dilemmas

The poem of the mask disguises meaning.
The poem of the diet lost seven words.

The poem of the snowman melted.
The poem of the invisible man.

Let us now praise hi-vis men
who gather together
round a pothole, filling the gap
with their sticky black remedy.

I lie back, arch my throat,
pretend to relax.  Contemplate

ceiling tiles . . .