Asparagus soup

When it’s three fifty one
and the coffee pot’s on
with the hot buttered toast
on my plate
I wait until
three fifty three and then decide
I want tea
like the weather
I am changeable.

but enough about me,
only joking.

Out to the balcony
smoking a mackerel
it used to be cigarettes
the price was too high.

If I start as I mean to go on
and the coffee pot’s gone
did it ever exist?
do I exist?
is the cat still alive?
the answers arrive at
three fifty five
by which time
I no longer care.

‘Hill Street Blues’

it’s Thursday out there
be careful.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.