written By
drinking my tea
for what comfort it brings me,
I stand by the window
watching this half-hearted quarantine.
beneath me, the river
runs with white clouds,
its rippled alternative
of black against silver
like light in the morning
catching a badly scratched
frying pan.
there are people about
and cars wandering, though I must admit
there are fewer than usual;
a black fragment
of burned bacon, submerged
in what’s left of the fat.
