FILE A REPORT

'write!'
'. . . can't . . .'
'file a report, damn you!  you a writer, or some ugly regular joe?'
'. . . writer.'
'can't hear you.'
'WRITER!'
'good, now file a report.'
'about what?  i'm so tired, cant think straight, head like a  sandbag . . .'
'about anything.  
the way you cook just to use that good bbq sauce, 
the Illy tins you keep keeping and filling with tat and long pencils, 
the flowers waiting under the ground for their moment in the sun.  you're the writer.'
'and you are?'
'your Supervisor, Agent. now file a report!'
'now?'
'NOW!'
' . . . but . . . its hard sometimes . . . i . . . need rest.'
'rest later.'
'ok. what were those things you said?'
'they're old now. come one.'
'like, mmmm, the smudge of mornings when dawns under the duvet?'
'good. more.'
'smudge of morning when the dawns under the duvet
and 
a 
hundred vans move like toy lego
in the unformed fantasy
of a dull child
trapped inside a living room
hiding
half chewed fish fingers under the sofa frills?'
'something like that.'
'and the sky is a grey back
and imagination dies
and only hot dinner and the night lights after dark
bring
comfort
to a town struck dumb as a friday night in alone 
pondering
dwelling
worrying
of
the LIFE outside LIVING in busy bars 
and spilled in shouts and bonds onto takeaway streets
while
hearing the washing machine gurgle and whir
and
make up
more
wet cloying chores.'
'that'll do. file it Soldier. that'll do.'