I am a retired lumberjack

surrounded by furniture woods.
Creaky floorboard leaves
crunch under my slipper boots.
I want to chop something.
The weak radiator sun won’t stop my bones
shivering against charity shop checks.
Blunt white axes clatter in my mouth.
I need to chop at something useless;
my slowly softening hands won’t let me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s