A slapdash poem for NaPoWriMo, squeezed into a busy morning ...
In the early morning dark
I stumble out of bed from a nightmare
where words devolved
and wouldn’t stay on the tablets
where they were embossed.
I stumble into the kitchen
stark naked
and the octogenarian neighbour
pipes up from the courtyard, Good morning, Andrew.
He is delivering The Sunday Times
at 5.55am for my wife –
the crossword page, specifically.
They talk clues and letters and meanings
throughout each day, two crossword birds
on the same bough. I ponder my thesis –
monologic or dialogic?
Bakhtin barks at Baxter, the dog next door,
as he chases our cat into the garden.
Sunday morning –
perhaps I should go back to religion
just for the rest.
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