The pitch

I pick up a pen to write and then the night calls me,
literacy falls by the wayside
I go topside,
all’s forgotten in the heat where dark corners meet
and congregate,

the paper waits for an explanation
I type my resignation under the lights
of an examination by the typing pool.

She uses oxymoron’s quite a lot
and she’s hot which is cool by me.

The water tastes tropical
but as cricket’s quite topical
at the moment
that’s plausible, but
the West Indies winning by four wickets
is rather fanciful.

And now I’ve lost the pen,
the night has left me and
still not yet ten,
I think the clock went into
shock after it shook me awake

If I find the pen
I’ll probably find it’s well
after ten and I’ve been
dreaming again.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.