Sun pours from the sky’s kettle
making everything drip with warmth
outside there’s a rattle and a clang
the window shakes with the passing of buses
sitting inches on the pavement below
burning their rubber into the road’s pores
burping up toxic gases
that I’ll beckon into my lungs when out for a run.
The Sunday air is quiet and creamy
writing from my bed feels eerily perfect
ahead of a week of probable worry
mind ready to melt
like an ice lolly
body like a train chugging towards burnout.
talking to my pillow. 