It's Still Life

Jury Duty

And then that long misty day
yawned like some sleepy jury.
The wall clock ticking as time
unspun itself into games
and daydreams, paperbacks
with minuscule print
and no pictures.
What to read.
What to do.
Two weeks.
The man next to me cringes;
he’s called for jury selection.
I do a mental walkabout,
a wander into my childhood
and school holidays,
always too brief,
make-believe was the best,
we’d play boot the moon
across the sky.
And I lift my cup to take a sip.
Instant coffee is so unpleasant
when you expect it to be hot.

written for Sunday Whirl number 262