On taking the piss

The warmth of Monday’s bedclothes
clings desperately to my skin,
and irritated by the discomfort of crusty eyelashes
that resolutely refuse to open 
I fumble clumsily to produce
coffee aromas that will usher out last night’s smells.

One pace from the back door
I stand easy, caricaturing Henry VIII
legs akimbo, the early spring breezes
squirrelling though every aperture of my pyjamas,
with coffee warming my lips, breezes cooling my arse
I find this contrary state temporarily bearable.

Until I need to pee,
so having contemplated the journey to the compost heap
hazardous at best in broken sandals
I discount the notion, shame though
it’s supposed to be good for accelerating rot.

Then a shaft of brilliance, that
far outstrips the early hour
turns up an empty tuna can
I hastily rescue from the black recycling bin,
deposit my sample swiftly
and balance it carefully on the windowsill.

I once again stand one pace from the back door,
this time hunched as a pious monk
as Thursday’s coffee steams.
Spring breezes having grudgingly passed
the baton to half-hearted rain
which slowly and surely fills
the can of fishy piddle.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017