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| Image / Kampus Production |
A Riposte, perhaps
Blithely unaware
of espionage,
I packed my beach bag
(books in sequence, paper,
pencils, specs in separate slots)
till - as if a gate I hadn’t
opened banged behind me -
“You’re slowing down.” Detached,
peremptory, “Half a week
It took you this time” - sigh -
“To slip into a routine.”
I shuffled through the doorway’s
sudden sun glare, “Ready?”
Then, leaving her to follow
in her time, dumped bag in boot.
I wasn’t irked but thought,
she’s got this wrong. You slip
into ruts. Routines
are created to do the things
you want the way you want to.
And, Madam Mistress Mine,
perpend: each morning
as you wake and press,
against me, I wrap
my arm beneath your arms
across your breast and, synched,
we wallow in our warmth.
If routine must be ruled
innately vicious,
this warrants censure.
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Daniel P. Stokes Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A., Canada, and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London, and at the Edinburgh Festival. |
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