wake early again
it is dark yet and there is the whistle of a single bird to be heard
peace
later clatter noise smart suggestions from the bed.
son starts to practice badly on the piano.
There are heaps of clothes everywhere.
A mass of unwashed dishes in the kitchen, rubbish everywhere.
there is no free space, not in the mind not in the head and not in the living room
the bathroom is full.
The wife starts upbraiding the son to tell him to clean up his room.
She should perhaps start with her own,
fuzz in the head, slamming doors.
After a long sleep this is clamour and horror.
no refuge.
and those of you who are poets play with words and give them meaning.
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