The snow is blowing

Blustery from the roof,

You say everything is simple

But I’m no longer sure,

When I grow terribly bored

I start rearranging rooms

Attempting to sweep

The dust from my life

Trying to recall a time

When everything was romantic

And I could trick myself

My heart was in my pocket;

A book of poems

By an American poet

Who drank too much.

Today there is only this

Walking between rooms

With list of chores

Watched over by a cat.

Today I will cook a meal,

Tidy my papers,

Throw away an old clothes

Trying to earn back some space

In which to think cleanly.

Later I will open a beer,

Sit down to write this

And tomorrow start again.