The car is garaged, left without a driver
I’m pedalling Yorkie, like a morning biker
Then catching the exit bus, and going down-town
Limping around, like an old clown
Lugging my back-pack, from bus to shops
And plumbing jobs are stuck on stop
My purse strings, hold only tattered seams
Dreams of travel, have run out of steam
Just a writer geek, at his computer desk
Unshaven, winter hibernating, feeling grotesque
Here waiting for spring, to thaw my paws
And to keep warming up the exit doors
Ivor Steven (c) August 2019