I have been trying for that mountain top tranquillity
whilst eating salted dinners and flicking the channels.
The rain stains the plastic patio, looking out onto the
garden fence, the concrete perimeter; the brick wall.
All indoor furniture orientates towards the television,
my family now but fellow spectators, instead of blood.
The fruit bowl holds post-its and tangled earphones
instead of pomegranates, clementines, and apples.
A writer's worst enemy is not her depressive vanity,
more the ivy creep of boredom and lack of taste in life.
We are running out of reality with each passing hedgerow,
through soap operas, wallpaper, and that halogen glow.