The world is a white waste
and in the gloom
of the early afternoon
you make your coffee,
pour two mugs full,
add milk from a carton
that was on discount yesterday,
take them to the table
where the computer awaits
hungry, its belly full
of sleeping words,
putting them down
on the wooden surface
beside the piled books,
sitting down before the assemblage,
drinking the pale brown
liquid for warmth to course
through your sluggish form,
and the computer's maw opening
start to put in some
order the poems holding
parts of the departed days
of the last week, water
in all its forms shaping
the world you reflect.
26.11.2025
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