It was two o’clock Sunday afternoon,
When I got up, but the day still had
an unused feel to it.
Threw a fire rope,
fastened to a hook under the sill, out of the window
and abseiled into the garden
leaving the house-key behind.
I do this for exercise.
It’s easy to get down,
it’s climbing up to my third floor flat again at night
with a belly full of ale that’s the problem,
been sleeping in the shed lately,
even installed a bunk bed
and a coffee maker.
Went for a breakfast at café around the corner
where its patron’s green glass eye
looks so disapprovingly at anyone who comes in
and ask for a cup of coffee,
that few people visit his place,
which is a pity
for he makes very good toasted sandwiches.
He has this strange dream of becoming an air-lane pilot,
but the only things that flies in his cafe are flies,
he also wears a dark blue uniform on Sundays,
it’s one he’s made himself,
four fat golden rings on each arm
and a pilot’s wings on his chest,
but the apron he wears to protect his uniform
and the cook’s hat, spoil the illusion
of him being airline pilot.
Gave me scrambled eggs on toast and hot coffee.
It had been raining while I was eating
and a black car by the kerb looked like a grieving widow
crying mascara down her cheek.
Since the day now had lost its lustre
and bars were closed,
I couldn’t be bothered to climb back up to my flat,
stretched out on the bunk bed, in the shed,
which I’m going to convert into a studio apartment soon
and waited for Monday.