evenings in mid-june
coming to a close. confessions from
midsomer murders hum into the whispers
of nine o clock. mum is asleep
on the sofa, stray hairs from
her blonde fringe jump
up happily to the sighs
of the window gaping.
forgotten to shut. apple pie
left out on the side. the custard
carton sliced and oozing. i do not
mind these life messes at all. nor
the rickety trains on tracks in the
distance. i am warm. the low sun spies her
time to turn in.