Conception

I walk into a café’s mouth

and wander lonely as a soul

amongst the faces; people laugh

and grin and point at purple sea and

mountains on the wall.

In here, ice cream; knickerbocker

glory; outside, snails are sliming in the wet

and, as I gaze, a waiter (‘Peter’ on his name badge) says

‘It’s not self-service,’ wafts a menu in his hand

‘what’ll you get?’

Seven Ages of Day

Sun’s as bright as a hospital lightbulb

makes me eyes water and cry;

time to be up and about in me trousers,

get me washed into the day.

Just before lunchtime, I chat to me mates,

head off to the caff with young Amy

and by mid-afternoon I be graftin’ like bullocks

or else I’ll end up in the army

but just before tea-time I suss it all out

and tell all the bosses ‘bog off’

then flop in me chair now, with cold beans on toast

and watch me some footie on t’box

but it’s darker than caves, and both eyes are red,

so I’d better head off up the stairs into clouds in my bed.