poet. writer. imposter.
The first non-Kelvin based writing I’ve done in about seven months. Be gentle, I;m still not awake.
Hotel. Birmingham. 18.8.17. (The Treachery of Mirrors)
It’s 6:15 and stifling, even with the window open.
The bloody workmen have woken me up with their drills
and an alarm on one of the vehicles that sounds
like it’s going to break into ‘Jingle Bells’ at any moment.
Every few moments, the threat of Christmas. Well, I am
in Noddy’s town.
Half asleep in brown soupy light I stare at a large picture
frame that seems to show a slender body prone
and elegant. I study it for a moment and marvel
at the simplicity of line before reaching to wipe
the sand from my blear struck eyes.
The picture moves and the mirror
reveals its treachery.
The mattress, too soft , hides half of my body
in the depths of its quicksand comfort,
conspiring with my longing for a return to youth,
to show me the lithe and elegant body I once had.
I allow myself a moment of vanity
then switch on the light.