No Rhyme or Reason

it's 1.49am. too late. been doing nothing much for a few hours. got home from seeing one of my spoken word favourites, Polar Bear tonight. Live recording of Radio 3's The Verb.

I'm a poetry groupie you see. Haven't written any recently, but like to be inspired by it, wrapped in a blanket of words and images that take you somewhere else. And PB's words are just as they should be, humane, accessible and funny. and right up there when it comes to running along you with a thought and poking you in the ribs now and then with a feeling you thought you didn't have.

it's 1.55 am. too late to tell you about the car, the brother in law, or the other little ditties of the day. This is a white night. Not just sleepless. I prefer to know them as the nights where the blank fuzz comes out of you. the stuff that you don't have the time to think about during the day, when you're fixing your mum's computer, shopping in the supermarket, or looking for your insurance certificate under the receipts, the wages slips and letters piled high on your table that clock in every hour and every moment of your life.

It's 1.59 am. and you cast your mind forward to tomorrow and wonder whether you'll rest your head on the pillow having dreamt of palm trees in the breeze, or driving to work in pyjamas and arriving just to be sacked .

It's 2.04 am. you look around the debris of your dinner in the living room, you clasp your hands in your lap, and remember what it was like to arms round your shoulders, purring with the sleep, while you were still awake.

it's 2.06 am and you log off, lock up the computer in a day that won't be read. and you go to bed. too late.