old times

It’s getting late, the sun long gone, the street lamps hum. The leaves rustle gently as the wind whistles by, rising now and then above the fridge’s solemn purr. I sit, poorly lit, the shadows droop along my face and I turn slowly page to page, stroking words with evening pace. The sofa moans objection as I lean to wrap my hands, all too familiar, ’round the dirty coffee cup. The spoon sits there a waitin’ while the kettle she’s a brewin’, making such a noise and such a show. The night rests close around the house, never far from reach, and I am wrapped up cosy in it, just as many times before. The clock hands shift, but making no intrusion, they move but bring no change, every minute like the last. I have all the time that’s in the world, snug in this winter coat, woven out of words.

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