I walk home under a red sky
back to my dingy apartment
I strip off the garb of the trade
and fall on the inviting single bed
Walls close in, but I'm thankful
for the large window beside my head
To watch the trees
To watch the birds return to their nests

Old coats seem like hanged convicts
From the jagged cupboard hooks
The only thing that is new
is the mountain of books
On my bedside, yet to read
I shall pick one up on the morrow
To feel coin well spent
To feel the surprise - will it be thrill, joy, or sorrow?

I place my blue hardback journal
on a makeshift table of cardboard box
I ensure the fluorescent sleeps
so I do not suffer unexpected knocks
Under a tungsten fire, with royal blue dye
I strike the pages with a fountain pen
To mark the week as done
To breathe back life into the poet again