Late Bus

A bit late for the bus this week - thought I'd be walking really, I'm so late. But, you know, sometimes you just have to push yourself, run to catch up and take that leap aboard.

This week the bus is been driven by Chiccoreal and the task is to write a poem on the first thing you think or do in the morning. Here's my effort...


Morning

Lying, duvet still my first skin
I contemplate the wardrobe at the
bottom of my bed.
He pollutes my bedroom view
monolithic oak-esque slab
gigantic gormless
looming formless eyesore
A brick shithouse bouncer
Big and basic
guarding tops and trousers
bought for comfort not
for comment.
There's something Soviet
in its ugly utilitarian
mournfulness
and in the last fake night of
curtains and blinds
it reminds me of all that's
futile
and night's febrile thoughts
linger longer
joining me in my
contemplation of our silent lodger
and his stoic silence.
As the chaos clatters from downstairs
I stay still staring at
my morose clothes companion
children fighting, watching tv
in pyjamas with school bells
five minutes soon.
husband long gone or rattle
battling instant coffee into
travel mug, ignoring the
skiving offspring
and still me and my wardrobe
compete our silent duel
who'll blink first.