Wake to small footed pyjamas,
small footed minutes and the thick
second hand tock insists, insists
I wait on my pile of pillows.
 
The burbley percolator pre-set to hiss,
fat seizing on bacon. For now,
the kitchen is ticking over without you.
 
In some other room, your spiky rollers,
your economical lips. I know you
by your starched robe, its bleached
blue. I know the scuff of your thin
white house shoes. Every fixture

in this place either clicks or spits,
not at me, but for me. Soon
my breakfast. Soon your cigarettes.