Same time tomorrow, same time today,
Shuffling, agitated, slick.
No song. No silence. Claws in the gutter, like me,
But slimmer. It’s the black, I guess.
Purpose tilting from things that glint,
To cursory attempts at scrambled egg,
And aspiring most to perspiring toast,
Crumbs in the butter and porridge oats.
How cruel are the ties that bind us?
I can’t fly and he can’t hold a knife.
I tell him I don’t even fly in my dreams,
And he tells me not to worry,
And that he doesn’t like heights.
And that his nights are filled with kedgeree,
Muffins and gooseberry jam, fresh flaky croissants,
Dubious meats and cheesy treats on cross country flights,
Screaming hot churros with beak-bending choc,
Pillow pancakes and blanket crepes, Oeufs Hollandaise
And Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.
I lean forward and nod knowingly,
And at the same time his head jerks forward in a fashion
That I assume to be reciprocal,
But probably isn’t.
And what can I say?
A lie won’t suffice, it won’t feed his kids and his wife,
So same time tomorrow, same time today.