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.