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March 2021 March 2021
When he’s gone to work, she grunts and clambers out of bed,
Into her bedroom slippers and her dressing gown.
She takes the lukewarm mug from where he left it where he did,
And she finds the stairs to wend the short way down.
She sticks it in the microwave to heat it quickly through.
That’s before she goes to run the bath.
Then before she knows it, she has dressed and shut the door,
And off to work, she’s whizzed off down the path.

He’s mostly home in half an hour, from finishing at three.
It’s almost like, a programme in his brain.
He reaches in the microwave to find the morning brew.
He tips it in the sink and down the drain.
There really is no logic. There is no rhyme or reason.
If there is, it’s one I cannot see,
But: you wouldn’t want to know the downward turn a day can take,
If she doesn’t get her morning cup of tea.

Paul J Openshaw

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