I have fallen into the old ways,
The killing comfort of plain rich food
That's shovelled from bleach-white plates into
Miserable gobs, mumbling unsalted platitudes
And "howerya" at the carvery lunch.
Those ways beckon the world-weary,
Snatching solace, racking up debt
With fat old gods, blind and smiling,
Their idols hung in stuffy heated rooms,
Prayers rising as mildew to collect in rafters.
Not for those a morning constitutional,
The weight rack, the rolled out yoga mat,
But a creaking floorboard, cold-creased
And cracking at the corners of a pressed frown
Like the groan of simply leaving a chair.
This age is bloated with poverty without vow,
Spendthrift with warmth but never counting
Out coins, a distaste for that,
No monument to set a lasting stone,
One’s name buried hastily ‘round the back.
And love is fallen, not in, but out of.
It appears whole, found, and ready
But spat out, now stuck to soul,
Flattened, then worn away by
The restless march of days.
May 2025