So far, the softest of landings.
Your sole design, to be left alone, left out,
or left behind, when the traffic thins
at half-past nine on a workday morning.
La vie boheme on a pension,.
Time to take thought for a saunter,
time to write thoughts down
or, by failure, braced - no freedom
like it - to highlight, then junk
the latest essay in lost love,
the break having been, in life,
anything but clean.
Two scraps of verse, unlikely survivors,
engross the hour before dawn;
a bowl of oats, a Greek-style yoghurt,
serves until afternoon.
Piecemeal, and from less and less,
the most is made. The house that is
as you had always intended
is the house you are about to leave.