I scribble on a scrap of paper while
she goes to buy a cartridge for the printer.
It’s five o’clock and Wednesday and mid-winter:
I should’ve stayed at home—I’ve got a pile
of work to do and this is wasting time.
Obama’s on the radio again
with promises on gun-related crime
and fighting poverty that hidden men
in long dark rooms will never let him honour.
A woman in white boots. Behind her, on a
bicycle, an old man, very slow.
She doesn’t look it, but somehow I know
she’s pregnant and they have no place to go.
I switch channels. It's an old song by Madonna.