Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

Third Day, March 25th

I woke up to a pale, empty sky, black pigeons sit close  

on TV aerials. I don’t know which way they face 

looking out looking in.  

At a sky so pale and thin or a house hiding from some sin 

 

Last night I didn’t get my government text till gone eight o’clock.  

They're not bothered about you, she said. That feels right.  

Truth is a campfire: feed it to make it bright.  

Starve it to sleep at night.  

 

I tried to describe cyborgs to a poet. Just text, no gestures to show it.  

I'm not sure that they got it.  

 

I’ll be back.  

 

And what about Arnie? Does he have underlying medical conditions?  

He's 72 and Rocky’s 73. The terminator and the boxer sitting in a tree,  

s-p-a-c-i-n-g.   

 

Today was a work day: one teacher, one student, not much to say.  

Either end of an English classroom, a corner flops from the Priestley display.  

Charles gets a test while 100k  

apply to be universal 

 

The student works so hard; worries he’s not done enough.  

I don’t tell him that it’s just so much stuff.  

 

By the afternoon the sun burns through the windows. Cycling home,  

to a full dishwasher, the streets are emptier than yesterday,  

as if the fumigator was given more pay.  

 

And when the sun drops the sky is pale and thin.  

Yesterday, Aldi sold me lemons. Today I drink gin. 

Contact

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Or find Alistair Wilkinson @algy04 on twitter.

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