Probably start a poetry night

Two bad days in a row
wide awake under a not-in-the-corners-properly duvet
any hope of sleep crash test dummying into brick walls.
A broken down conveyor belt of dreams.

It’s nights like this I think about Whitby. Whitstable. Camber Sands
a bungalow around the corner from a shop that sells buckets and spades
a porch for people to leave their sandy shoes.

I’d probably start a poetry night.
Invite along performers I liked.
Tell them there’s no money for you
but I’ll take you to see the donkeys
and they could stay as long as they like in the spare room.

‘I needed this,’ they’ll tell me in my local
After I’ve shown them around the venue across the road,
A café that are only too happy to stay open in the evening
Good to have a bit of culture round here.

Word would spread around the cities.
‘I’m so exhausted …’ someone starts to say.
‘There’s a place you should go’
will be the reply.
‘You will love his dog.’