God for a fortnight, pharaoh
till the generator blows, then what?
This week’s most missed:
the shipping forecast; showing off.
Write alive in the meadow
with empty blue oil drums in case
clouds can read/stars give a shit.
Two million years of shame
takes some shucking off—I still
nip behind a wall to exude.
Mandrake prospers in the cracks.
Corned beef and cling peaches again;
note to self: start growing stuff.
Along the station’s oxidized tracks
every minute pulls in on time.
Ripples on the lake: ditto, ditto.