stomp your boots and leave
your crumbs of outside on the floor
drape your soggy overcoat
on any chair you find
shoulder past the door
into the hollow tv chair
flip the buttons, tour the globe
by thumbing the remote - on
seven, news is on the air
but as the reader monotones
thoughts escape your head like sheep
bolt through a trampled fence
tail on tail, the dullard drones
to do a lesser nothing there
following themselves in blank
disinterest: life like sleep
peace in empty meadows: there
is nothing left to stir, aggrieve,
tantalise, or vex your mind
you have yourself to thank
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1 comment:
That's touching...you wrote a peom about what I get up to when I should be writing! :D
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