work is endless
phone rings like a fire alarm
and
i
go
smoke
out by the ambulances
and
see
a
sun low as trees at just quarter to one
winter
busy
and of course i'd rather be at home
watching
the
low sun sink and burn from a garden recliner
home ground coffee in my hand
filing slow outdoorsy reports
till
the
grey fluff of cloud between the blues
and
above
the
rooftops
goes
pink
like the cotton wool
girls use to dab make up away in the evening
before
they
dress in childlike pyjamas
and fold their legs underneath them
to watch any tv
grey pink clouds
left
on
the floor
by the bathroom bin
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