Hoovering must transform.

While hoovering like a manic this morning, I realised cleaning is probably filling in the sex cavity in my life.

I have had to admit it to myself. It must stop.

Why can I not seem to channel this energy into my work, or even cooking.

Hoovering!?

Unimaginative. Temporal.
Drear.

The sun is in full swing, and breezes are tickling the backs of trees-they shed their first crinkle gold leaves on to the pavement, into the garden, little apples fallen off into the wet grass.

There is a drawing of boats on my wall. I drew it.

Take me sailing. Take me away somewhere.

No,no. I do not wish to escape. Not run away.
Just some new views for my eyes, just for some time.

He who travels, he who wanders and plays and performs.
Want to get to know you better.
Want to get some light under my skirt, into my heart, a sable smile.

Nearly time to go, and throw myself into books and wrapping and selling and sweetly giving change and all those other exchanges, which gently lead me into happily forgetting about myself, for a few brief hours,

before the time comes
to leave, pack my bag,
and get back to remembering the only time I met you.