July 3, 2018 by petrujviljoen
Cat’s grooming, ashtray’s overfull the bed
remains unmade, I’m still in it. An empty
plate, precarious, on the edge. The note-
books and poetry books and the sun’s
streaming the wind – has blown over the
long lifeless willow. Only this morning
still, there, a presence …
Woodpecker’s nest drilled to a near
perfect depth now halved and exposed
in the crash which passed me by.
Wading through the weeds, still in my
slippers, paying respect to the dead, the
fled and the unused. Dirt road shows
yesterday’s tracks in the light of the
pale sun hanging high.