Striped sock

If I was to squeeze
your foot
like a tube of toothpaste

the insides would come out
a podiatry pate
from the big toe

But
I wouldn’t clean my
teeth with it

the taste
of foot in mouth
being all wrong

Towards the year’s close

Zoom. Did you notice, the sound of the year rushing past, speedier than ever as you sit watching the television from the safety of a lockdown sofa?

We are, apparently, still at war with the Corona virus. An enemy that we can’t see, and that many seem to assume as an inconvenience not to be taken seriously. It gets in the way of the drinking and *being crowded together* that is so much more important than spending a month not moving anywhere.

Automatic writing

Tears return
as we all will
to the ocean

Look ahead, and
the future erases the now

in two hundred years
these words
and
the many that have
surrounded them

will be lost, memories only
to dead lovers
friends and acquaintances
a lifetime past and
forgotten

Of perception, of failure

I have spent the day filling holes in doors, with wood filler that dries to the colour and texture of old toothpaste. The doors – even the bathroom door, when I eventually get that far – are not covered in toothpaste. Thus, the fine finish that had been prepared – in mind’s eye, at least, since the reality is different – is marked by practical and emotional contrast.

Part of the ground is now covered with expletives, and there is DIY regret sprinkled liberally around the house.