I scald my hand spilling tea
on the bedsheets then
groan at the injustice dripping
with dissolved ink
from my bedside to do lists, cold tea
pooling around the stack of books,
two remote controls &
an alarm clock not worth mentioning.

I'm in bed alone tonight.
The cup leaves round wet stains
on the quilt cover when I rest it there.
There are fifteen versions
galloping before me
to tomorrow and yesterday
rippling away from here
in neat concentric circles.

Be clever.
Be obscure.

There is dirt under my fingernails
and the washing machien is
mumbling at the same load
for the second time.
I'm expected to have
these things finished.
O Lord, put me to bed.