The sight of leaves piled up inside the kitchen door
They’re a thing, I suppose, possibly something you
Could hang some recollection off but
If you’re of a slightly different cast of mind today
You’d say they’re leaves.
Lots of them, a
Fucking nuisance, to be frank, but you’ve
Got to keep the door open, always, not
To make some trite point but because
The fans don’t work if you don’t
That’s how extractors work, they
Pull air in, up, and though, and out
And if you shut the door the air
Well, I don’t rightly now, gets sucked
out of the room, maybe, all the words you mutter
to yourself as you step from stove to bench
to fridge, pulled up and out
into the sky, which is dark, but not
because there’ s any point to any of this.
It’s dark because it’s November
And it’s nine in the evening and
Here you are, searing off another
Steak, someone else’s evening as
The air is sucked through the door
And up, and out and the leaves
Collect, in a pile, by the door
And some poor fucker’s going to have to sweep that up
Comments
Post a Comment