Grimbeau

Unshaven, filthy heap,

Condescends to wake

moping like a slum,

anticipating the worst.

A pained animal wails

Comatose in the garden.

More cloud and damp certified

*

Bacon butties, washing, sweep floor,

then…yes! There’s the rub.

Yesterday’s exchanges were ominous,

dictat is not assertion.

No plan, just command.

Move me bed upstairs!

Trouble is brewing…

*

Ten china doves in gloves

Scattered shattered crowd the path…

Showered, swept, washed, cooked,

consumed, answered the phone,

all alone for another day,

masquerading competence,

kidding no one but myself

*

One man play for the F-Bomb…

ludic, fractious notion.

Fish & chips made from

leftover garden spuds?

And why the hell not?

When forensic finally

Turn up the flies are long gone