My days these days are shaped

like right-angled triangles,

each apex aimed at midnight on the clock:

mornings thick with potential

the day slims to thin by evening.

There’s nothing left of me by night,

but here I am with 30 minutes to write.

 

My day contained a forest walk

and a ride in a soft-top car in sunshine

we were told not to expect.

I saw some old friends and made some new ones.

A book about healthy food was delivered to my door;

I ate a pizza and I wanted more.

I read a play about suicide and I walked

out of a film halfway because it was so dull it made me

feel that way.

 

At times like this it’s hard to write a poem

because they were everywhere, in everything, all day

and now it’s nearly midnight

there’s just too much to say.