It's Still Life

I.
his feet are on the coffee table,
arms crossed,
glasses inches down his nose.

I never noticed that
Birkenstocks
have squiggles on the soles.

ah rain.

and thunder.

II.
never rake leaves
when the wind is blowing.

the pigeon
is standing in the birdbath
demanding water.

III.
saturday.
rain.

steady
and soft

dripping from the gutter.

‘money on which plant revives first?’ I say.
he shrugs, ‘fiver on the ferns.’

‘grass,’ I say.

IV.
strawberries.
it takes him
five minutes to choose.

the farmer’s wife
shifts her weight
to the other foot.

V.
‘going for a walk,’ he says.

he’ll be back soon.
he hates raindrops
on his glasses
the way I hate
liver.

he’s back.
polishing his glasses.

VI.
six numbers and a bonus ball.
impossible.

‘think of it this way,’ I say,
’45 million seconds is about a year and five months.
imagine labelling every second
from around march last year until now,
then having to identify
one particular second at random.’

‘glad I didn’t spend it
before the results were announced,’ he says,
swirling tea leaves in his cup.

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Everywhere Poems don’t have a subject. They have a starting point and follow wherever attention leads. It’s — go for a walk and see where you end up.

Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.