The book

The ink pen on rest.
Email arête.
I spend evenings out instead
with friends
a bucketful of sky
And a tub of ice cream

Life has been a strange kind of fun
I don’t even know I’m numb
No scribbles
A few doodles
And a strange mix of time
I squeeze in a few lines
But I’m just busy being busy

The tree
The blue and
The new white cloud
Transport me
To a land far far away
Of thoughts
And impossibility

But thoughts, like air bubbles
Escape.

The sandwich
The cookie
The indulgence
The stupidity
The books
The smell of glue
The bits of paper
That flew

The dogs that drool
The kids from school
All have a place
At least I have a book
My saving grace