pale flowers pale proprietor pale ale
i have ordered you to the table
almost funny how quickly you arrive
and funnier
ethanol ice, roots and glasses crash in
celebration
oh branch, gnarled wood with a numbered
engraving - i send thanks
via application
payment as in a pitcher - forget
taste -  order it
sugary with a bit of weight yet
you never took credit for
sake of appearances
I only entered you
knowing you wouldn’t ask as much as
the others past 5pm
to sneak out your doors by 11
into gravel’d outposts -
into the dark crying out for something
like your lost beauty.

One. I ask my Dad what day it is, again. Two. I had a nightmare that our block of flats was exploding whilst I ran away, do you think this reflects my fear of the virus, doc? Three. Chocolate porridge at 2pm, maybe its a bit late for porridge. Four. I think I accidentally chucked my propranolol tablets into the bin. Five. I take a bike ride round the village and I get intrusive thoughts about knocking over old people, on purpose, for fun. Six. I’m back to the flat and the ceiling looks like it’s lower than usual, did I grow a few inches? Seven. I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma, must have been when she cried in Wetherspoons, someone crying with you is better than no friend. Eight. My breathing turns shallow I think, I check my symptoms. Nine. I imagine dying of it and look back at my twenty-five years like a montage and get really overwhelmed and then I start to watch an old Mickey Mouse cartoon on my laptop. Ten. I just spotted a really plump pigeon outside. Eleven. Is this how hamsters feel, trapped inside with a few things to stimulate them. If so, I’m so sorry Martin (my old hamster). Twelve. The frustration sets in like thick molasses filling in the grooves of my soft brain. Thirteen. I turn to drawing and just end up sketching a huge mouth swallowing a rat. Fourteen. It’s bedtime and I settle down with a book. American ******. Patrick just killed a dog and it set me off sobbing. Fifteen.  I close my eyes and wish for a better day tomorrow. Is it going to be Tuesday or Wednesday?

It was the full English breakfast with extras that did it,
Wetherspoons got rid of the evidence, but my gluttony hung like a tyre around my waist,
at last I was sated but I still wondered why I hadn't ordered some potatoes with a hot shepherds pie.

Holidays become me
and the blimp in my tummy
reminds me to go on a diet.

But it's back to earth with a bump
as I jump out of my bed
and instead of the beach
it is work
I must reach before nine.

What is there to do?
Late nights and late mornings, coco pops for lunch.
Mourning Wetherspoons with friends, drinks and
3am cheesy chips, laughter like clowns on steroids.

Today I cried over my laptop dying
and I can’t use Facebook on a wide screen.
I’m pining more for real faces though
and having jokes heard and my expressions seen.

The evenings mission is dinner, lining up
the vegetables like soldiers and making
food does seems that serious now.
Outside the streetlights somehow look dimmer.

But when spring hits the watts of sun will
glow like shining daffodils and we shall
bloom too and grow using fertiliser that
forms out of the depth of solitude.

i asked him about the building opposite with the tall chimney

he explained it was an old bath house, listed

bought up by wetherspoons, that i should go see

&

to make sure i spelled it right

i did both, read the information board

fellow travellers exited and asked if i were going in

for a drink

i explained that i was interested in the architecture

resulting in their anger that i was ‘one of those’……

ranting that ‘they‘ deemed that all should now be

vegetarian

& he a sheep farmer, retired

that

the buildings in london were cleaner than in the war

so no pollution then as dictated……

no climate change at all………………

did i then say i was vegetarian?

I did.

the next day they apologised to me and

then continued on their previous theme