When I Wake Up (January 2006) Poem by Phil Lucas

There are always
thirty dozy minutes.
A private time to sizzle
on an electric blanket
that could roast chestnuts twice over.
Then I rise,
but can offer little to the world
except a growl
and a lolloping sway
that helps me
bump into the bedroom wall.

I career into the kitchen
with a morning frown,
switch the kettle on
and with shaky hands
cupped lovingly around
a field green mug
of crow black coffee,
I retire to the sofa
with a hot hot water bottle
and a new pack of cigarettes.
Twenty crisp white friends
to see me through the day.

Sloth determines
that I watch most of ‘This Morning’
safe with my unhealthy fondness
for a middle-aged presenter
who looks after proceedings
when Fern is away.
On the days when Fern is there,
a piece of the daily jigsaw
is missing.

Around the time
when the outside world of bustle
considers lunch,
I consider a shower.
Thoughts drift
to the supreme effort involved
and a blustery, scientifically inspired bathroom
that welcomes only the cold.
I decide
another day on the sofa
unscrubbed
with my cigarettes
is best.

Nothing gets done.
again.