Crouched here,
in my orange wing-back chair
counting the plastic circles
on my white linoleum shirt.
Watches tock around the walls
time steadily stealing through
the shelf, taking its pick of the books.

Door knock.
I open the door to critique,
leaving it open so the birds can swing
in, one at a time. I miss you,
Ruth.

Gigantic t-shirt arm chair,
giggling at me from the corner
nearest the window under the fern.
The flame skims so low I wear
sunglasses in my own home.

They say leave out
what you know. Hemingway says
‘they’ll know what you know’.
I’m not so convinced.

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