No Better Time

Teapot warm beneath its cosy,
fleabag cat asleep by fireside;
each quarter hour, the mantle clock
describes a Saturday's slow slope
toward evening. Mick McManus
reaches for the ropes, then football
scores clatter on the teletype.
It's East Fife 4 and Forfar 5.
Will Janice say, 'Oi'll give it foive'?
It could be raining. The curtains
are already drawn against dusk,
when the garden grows infinite
with darkness and the outside lav
hisses with an oil lamp's contempt
for a boy afraid that insects
may blunder big as Zarbi
in the back yard. No better time
than teatime. Fetch the butter
dish and save the golly label.
Not all monsters shrink from daylight.