words burst into the empty room and sink
into wood-chipped walls.
I am thrilled
There isn’t a cushion of place,
Or a dirty plate,
or a dish cloth dotted with swollen toast crumbs, no.
There is just me, alone in clean silence.
I tiptoe on my tea stained carpet and hold my breath
in case the robin in the back garden stops singing.
Or the train on the railway track 400 yards away slows.
In my little cupboard sized kitchen
the kettle rocks on its silver disc,
and the fridge performs its hourly shudder.
And the walls sweat.
I put last nights dinner in the ding – chicken supreme and second day roast potatoes,
better reheated, yes, better.
I scroll through Facebook,
watch people talking to one another
without opening their mouths.
I turn off my phone – to feel.
I feel everything.
Maybe I should do something?
Maybe I should clean my plate,
eat a jammy Wagon Wheel just because –
Maybe feel a little guilty so practice Yoga on the Wii?
Maybe just sit and watch the robin in the tree.
© Kirsty Lear-Grant