No point pulling the curtains

No point making the bed

Waste of time picking up clothes

Futile cleaning his head.

 

He thinks today will be lost, will be compost

a day of maggots, twenty four hours of weevils

A shadow lies over it, doomed from the start

It's a day that doesn't rhyme.

 

Or scan.

 

There's no point, it's all out of joint.

 

She sends a text.

Thirty words, one hundred and five letters,

and two question marks.

Two very important question marks.

Each one a touch,

a blessed warming breeze in an Arctic soul.

 

He responds.

 

The day starts, he picks up clothes,

makes the bed, lets in the light,

gets a shave, gets a plan

shakes off the shadows, acts like a man.

 

And he says

'Thank you'