The Den

Piecing together
Sombre reflections
Of a misguided weekday,

Rolling peas around a plate,
Watching colours on the telly,
Blandly groaning excuse me’s
And ignoring all puddings.

The mood trundles
So we retire
To the child’s den,

Under chairs and picnic blankets,
Sighing with iced lollies,
Wishing for more time to ourselves

And the old Monday classic,
A way to make money
But somehow do very little.

We pick wigwams from catalogues,
Sketch pictures of squids
And guess songs from whistles,

We sprawl and reminsce,
Enhance stories and smile in HD,

I improvise an eyebrow dance

And we slouch into each other’s arms
Prepared to dismantle.

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