I'd never move

I’d never move 

When Sunday opened it’s legs

for Monday far too easily, 

I would never move.

There were never many stills of us 

making the most of the passing hours 

My memory couldn't focus, 

from the station blank, still can't.

By the time it does 

I realise that every memory passed 

was the greatest work of fiction 

(based loosely on us)

(written a while back but realised I never shared it)

Burnt sweet potato, pigeon blood

Memories of this place.

Burnt sweet potato.
Pigeon blood.
It wouldn't come up

A 2 bed rental.
Housed our birthing pool.
Stagnant water from a stay in hospital.

 First responders and midwife  treads

An untouched courtyard.
Plans of plants just roots in our heads

An unhinged neighbour. A freedom fighter
left drowning in his stereo, the night before 

Rat Olympics from the kitchen to the bin store . 

And a landlord second toke nonchalance  

But Our little carpet crawler, new knees, the bees knees, we could've been
in a tent and still been happy with him. A new lease of life.

Every moment marked in these four walls. (but any)

Every moment now flaking paint in a world pandemic 

Having to downsize due to COVID19