Suddenly you realise you've not done anything all week. You've ridden to work, filled the hours with fiddling, came home and ate. The sleeping part is the best because you don't realise you're not doing anything. And every morning your spine hurts from the lies it's been keeping, carrying all week. That's Fridays. What will I be sixty years onwards?

The Old Poet

Pen and hand, prying the words
from the tip as they fail fall
and she sits
with it on her tongue

On the island of letters where
a Sea lion's syntaxed
to form

Geriatric with glasses look
back on the straw
meek with grasping

Dawns a terrible beast
in the light she's
created a monster