I don't know if I believe what it is like to be you right now, poet

Sat in your kitchen, under a skylight
listening to rain and cutlery replenishing.

Do your gut lift of relief, of bewilderment
at what sticks in your notebook
when the option to be otherwise occupied is erotic.

Do your daily meaning pick,
a bone handled carvery set from an auction overflow table.

Check your pocket, full of plastic pellets for a model out of make
that you don’t know what it did
apart from it being imperative to happiness.

Listen to the opinion of the butter dish.
Your jumper is classic.

We all wish you kept a record of the process.