If you don’t believe in God, my friend says, 
why don’t you eat pork?

On my phone a newsreel shows a car boot lifting
just above the flood. Tail lights like eyes 

caught in a comic gasp, while its body, like the carriageway,
lies under sixty million litres of last night’s rain. 

Today I tipped the packet of coffee
into the cafetiere instead of the tin.
Caught myself in time, didn’t pour water in.

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.