If I cling to the warmth
of the thirteen tog of polyester,
I can avoid the misty windows—
an unmistakable sign of yesterday’s laundry—
for another hour,
unless I can no longer fight
the inconvenience of a morning glory.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
A good life is very much all about being specific;
everyone knows ambiguity leads to turpitude.
Perhaps we invented restaurants—
places where we participate in learning
to despise—because we couldn’t stand the silence
of the hearth.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
I filled the cabinet above the toilet
with rows of loo rolls—three-ply,
enriched with lotion and fragrance;
it is the perfect elegant paper,
or at least that’s what the description
on the back of the packaging says.
Quite the frippery for a derrière—
even one as fine as a poet’s.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Unlike family evenings or passionate nights,
early mornings have rather poor patronage,
even if toned down with a cantrip of cuppa
spiked with a generous spoonful of saccharin
served by the saucy, pedantic wretch of ours
brazenly peeping through the open curtain.
I knew it was a fool’s play inventing words
that are not real, like ‘forever’ and ‘enough’,
but I never imagined you would actually burn
the dictionary—though I suppose that’s expected
when you consort with an arsonist—and leave
the kitchen table to grow somewhat too ample
for one measly setting at dawn.
