See me sit at my desk one evening
(Elegantly off-white), my coffee steaming,
My crumpets, with a low-fat spread,
Waiting to be thoughtfully chewed.
I'll write some lines, listen to some music:
Beethoven's Ninth, perhaps Vivaldi instead.
I'll tidy my desk-drawers: the pens
Rulers, dictionary, stamp-book too:
All my stationary paraphernalia.
I'll lie on my bed, read a book:
How exquisitely well-read I am!
"Tess Of The D'Urbervilles" nears finishing; a
Volume on Van Gogh midway; a serious music
Magazine, for light entertainment.
My carpet clean, my clothes neatly hung, my
"Monet" prints thoughtfully pinned
On the wall opposite the door.
The evening nears its close; all progress;
It shall be worthwhile, this improvement, I am sure,
For the future.
But I lie in bed, silent, alone,
And wonder why I still feel so fucking lonely.
