With fake gusto I work through
early morning exercises,
a song on the radio turned up
loud enough to stir the house,
to get the windows grinning
and prime the walls with pandemonium.
Grudgingly I steer around
my stubborn turtle-like demeanour.
Yesterday’s bugbears—
a long march, making war, laying siege,
are where I left them last night
in the pockets of my day clothes.
They wake to my touch
like keys fitting a lock.
I test the day’s ambience,
a cat sniffing the air.
The spot in my brain that believes in magic
mumbles sweet-talk to higher powers,
but I am not on first name terms with gods.
My place in the universe is plain to see,
I am its washbowl.
And the future is impassible
to all but imagination.
So I claim what belongs to me now,
the shadow of reason that comes and goes,
and every one of my changeable feelings.
These are my country.
