‌Hum

In the bungalow down south, near the sea, with springy short lawn and a shed In a room that should be for eating, a bed, two beds and

A low shelf, brow thick with varnish It rests.

At night it hums darker than daytime.

Warm coils push the time along but it’s still only 9 Like me

And I must wait till

They or him or her are here to sleep near me

So my ears telescope the silence and some strains seep through TV people laugh

Grandad coughs his guts up

I lie taut in nylon sheets and a maroon shiny eiderdown

I know my clocks and this one isn’t right

It runs/hums without stepping, avoiding the cracks

No. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 counting out the dark till a sandy slip of light wakes me up Or I dip into dreaming until switched on to wake

The dining room is beef and blackberry rich with roll-ups Time is trapped by the fug. And the hum…

It burrs 9.15 past 21, 30. Fifty-four. Then Bong clock 10. TV news strikes and vol. up

Tock. One half of one hour to pass

Grey-topped voices assert against the hum but it’s louder now No docile pussy purr it scratches, acid etching the varnish

The TV wrings back landing a fat punch My air is knocked out and flat on canvas I am beaten to nearly to deaf as

Grandad coughs his guts up on his way and They or him or her are here to sleep near me. Breaths silence the hum and I switch off.

In the bungalow, down south, near the sea, with springy short lawn and a shed It will be morning and we will get a bus to Sandwich.

October 27, 2014