almost normal

awake, and it is early.
The window is open, there is fresh air and near birdsong.
It is warm.
Maybe the desolate long months of winter are done,
Suiting the time of the year

Take a shower, a plastic bag to protect the stitched up hand
The warm water, the cleanlines, the cleansing,
all pleasant

The son is making coffee in the kitchen
he is also making a mess,
clear away the distributed bits and peices,
earn some filial umbrage,
a teenage rant as to why clear the table before he has finished.

Why indeed ever clear the table?
Things are just deposited wherever they were last used here,
nothing can be found, eternities are spent in searching.
.
.
.
.
.
no point.
.
all is back to normal
almost