It’s Tuesday again—not a clue what the date is.
It’s Tuesday.


A tikka curry is simmering on the stove.
There’s no wine in my paper cup (I used it in the food).
A refill it is, then— not too much— leave some for the guest;
nobody likes a drunken host.

I set the table:
two spoons (my guest insists),
two bowls (he’s messy),
a roll of toilet paper (he’s got style).

The elevator doors open—
I know this because they make an annoying choo-eet, choo-eet sound,
and I’ve been living in this ******* apartment
for longer than I can remember.

Footsteps echo through the corridor—
Oh, I’m so excited when he visits!
Even the little cows on the kitchen curtains are smiling.
Hope he enjoys the curry.

The doorbell rings twice – such an impatient little man,
but I do so enjoy his company.
I open the door and give him a hug;
he whispers in my ear, *Good evening, me.