Through blinds, dark is thinning back
to day – like your hairline. Cold shave.
Microwave the day-old coffee, cornflakes.
Watch the sky live on the morning news
then put the umbrella you will never use
into your rucksack. A voice says
someone somewhere is opening a door
to opportunity. Remind yourself that
they only mean money, to double-check
the house is shut before you leave.
The self-help your grandad gave you
not to sweat it. You wipe off
the shaving foam you missed, grab
your charging smartphone, unfriend
a stranger. Click, then click again. Switch off.
Under the sheets, you stirred
like the first time twenty years ago.
Now, you sit on the bus
you are not driving, and feel
empty like a camel long time gone and no way home.