when the people are gone
and the wooden house
has been burned down
to recover its nails

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.