At dawn, the train heads slowly to King’s Cross
And wakes me up just like it has for years.
“I ought to have a day off from the boss.”
I think as I get up, not out of fear

But habit, frozen hard, and now writ large
On grizzled middle-age. “Search for a knife
To spread the beige object with some old marg
Crumb-filled like my own memory.” Deprived

Of every context, stranded in a giant tub.
The fat is endless rain which leaves denied
All of my past. The hope for any hubbub
Shaking up life and leaving things untried

For things to happen feels like rain’s slow patter.
And a note I stuck on the fridge: “I matter.”