Photograph by John Cairns
Flu-ridden for two days now,
I'm glad of the carpet; like Atlas,
a shoulder to lean on. Behind me,
the kitchen garners its grot:
ash, oatflakes under the lino,
lamb string, unstuffed stuffing,
grounds swilling the sink, floor
ripe with fridge roux. I miss it.
The plants will need water, too.
The spiders have blurted sprigs;
conkers, like swollen knuckles,
must be tended. I heard a split.
When my head thaws through
I'll sway at the stove's lip,
buy fresh and undivided milk,
dance on the crashed carpet.
This poem is from Sound Houses, published by Carcenet. Will Eaves is a novelist and poet. He is the author of eight books. Broken Consort: Essays, Reviews, and Other Writings (CB Editions) was published last year. He won the Wellcome Book Prize for Murmur in 2019. He is currently writing about music and distraction. This poem first appeared in The Inevitable Gift Shop, which was published by CB Editions.