The Old Fuel

Half the time I’m microwaving something               or planning a meeting
or deciding which blue shirt to wear                        and it’s all happening
Other times     I wake up                                       and the day’s flung out
in front of me like a roll of lino and I’d rather not                        step on it
I’d rather stay in bed                         thinking about you and eating toast
and East African doughnuts saying                   “Who owns this monkey?”
to a group of women,    one night I dream                       of entering a lift
with sides that aren’t attached to its floor                   so when it goes up
I stay stuck on the ground;   I take the stairs                  but  none of this
is enough    to reach you                                 some things never change
Someone on the radio is shouting at someone                            between
seven-thirty and nine;       thoughts of you line up in the corridor; and I’m
cranking out oodles of love                  the way an old spaghetti machine
cranks out spaghetti                                                   baby, it’s hard work

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