VII
Saturday

Behind the door of a mid-terrace —
a house of trousers:
a leaning tower of pizza boxes
and the picture on the fridge
of a housemate's dick in your jam.
Spread it on your black toast anyway.
Watch the seasons pass
on the 42-inch LCD.

Whitey, leaning out the kitchen window,
watching a seagull and pigeon
pick over a dead tongue of doner meat on the patio,
padding with their wet feet as they pulled at it,
not looking at it,
not disturbed by his heavy inhalation,
cough, exhalation, curse.
How these Saturdays start like this.