I’ll not be grudging.
It’s not time yet. As if there’s
just so much steeping
in these stories, in between breaks of
noodles and curry.
I often have a lie-down too.
It felt like relief, to be absorbed
into the dreams. Sometimes waking up
having a lightbulb go off
then kind sobriety.
I mean, Tessa, there’s so much
compulsive insincerity just to be,
you know, civilized.
I listened to his grunts too,
coming as and when,
and then not much even then.
Prompt: Write a poem in which not much is happening. That seems a daily thing. Not. Much. Happening. Waiting for the big adventure or something. Then it seems one of the nicest things is to lie in bed. Reading. I get sent off to these stories in bed. That’s what I like best.