My beard itches as I ponder 1 Across
and subconsciously begin to stroke my chin,
awaiting your admonishment.
I notice spectral breath
on the kitchen bay,
a familiar handprint dissipates
occasionally badly stacked pans shift in a cupboard
through yet another sleepless night.
The stairs may creak one step behind mine
or a phantom chisk on the gravel path
keens to my ear,
sometimes a pencil, amongst the
scattered cushions I never use
and of course the voices.
© Graham Sherwood 01/2016
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