At the cafe

Trying to pull my thoughts in
from the shivers down my spine,
getting it together one more time.

And so I rose
blew my nose
did what risers do,
just trying to get through
another day.

The paperboy who’s sixty-eight years old
whistled far too gaily as he shoved my
daily Daily,
through the letterbox,
but
everything’s a niggle when you’re trying to
get a wiggle on or trying to pull your thoughts
in from the shivers down your spine.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.