rhythm

we’d got into a rut

call it a rhythm for polite

I’d get home dog tired

we’d eat something

from the fridge take away

drink watch the box some

go to bed

where I’d give up

whatever I had left

get up in the morning

& do the days

all over again

she told me she was bored

yeah me too baby I’d say

we’ll get a holiday eh?

& we’d go lie in the sun

drink some drinks

eat a meal in the diner

restaurant bistro bar

watch the sunset some

go to bed

where I’d give up

whatever I had left

get up in the morning

& do the days

all over again

dust from distant places

back a couple of days

& looking around

the piles of stuff

needs washing

putting away

hanging on the wall

the knick knacks souvenirs

picture postcards on the fridge

creating tracks across the floor

the sand from far off places

leading to & from the door

leaving reminders

once we weren’t here at all

& the stuff that doesn’t show

is the dust from distant places

settling slow in my mind

white goods gods

Noises

in the middle of the night

3 am

as I pad in

barefoot to the kitchen

& hear the songs

of the fridge in the corner

wanting to tap my feet

find the melody

that will never come

or is this the way

aliens may contact us?

mistaking our veneration

of white goods

as the love

we have

for our gods