Old habits die hard: I wake at six.

Today. Then tea. Then fruit. Then toast.

Though I may not shave. Or else I may.

My suits have been dry-cleaned and put away.

 

I wait to see what’s in the post:

it’s usually just rubbish mail.

Out there, the world makes its foray

to work. Will they hang here till Judgment Day?

 

Wisdom I know is not to rail

at flaws I have no power to fix.

But a pension’s not the same as pay.

My wife says I should flog them on eBay

 

keeping just one, for funerals – the grey.




First published in Snakeskin 251, May 2018