Clodhopping

1 February 2017

Cut a hole through the ceiling, the insulating batts, tin sheets.
Climb out that way, spacetime jelly-wobbles.

I might revisit the demolished pub, say something else at the rock pool
decline the offer of a garden tour, take my plate out to eat with the others

give water to the thirsty bird, walk past the walk-in wardrobe
never think about the toaster oven or even the kitchenette

decline the second cup of coffee. On the sidetable a box of tissues.
A dry eye, I got lost on the way out, matt corridors

a house in a dream, a trustworthy figure directing me to exit
the warped, exuberant magazines, the yellow daisies with tawny centres

the prohibition, the fat black bear, the fact I’m here
the flattened ear, the greek key patterning the curtains

ice cream container full of leftover barbecued steaks.
The aluminium ladder in the aboveground pool

sinking slowly on one side. I was wearing a bouclé
v-neck jumper, mustard yellow, and I didn’t feel like talking.

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