The pattern of my day has become ninety percent

the same, as the day before,

the day before, the day before,

repeated actions, a couple of games of Cribbage

to get the brain in gear, repeated actions,

an album of the day, in which to reminisce,

to remember you,

or someone that looks the same,

as you did back then,

in my memory,

the sense of new excitement

coursing through my veins,

as I undo a new recording

in which to delve,

echoed every day,

and then as my eyes become heavy,

I call my Mum,

to make sure she is keeping

Her own retold spirits up,

we discuss the same,

the repeated actions,

that make our day unique,

and I wonder

for the tenth time that morning,

when I will see Her, and you,

and you, and you

again,

repeated actions…

(I want to sit in a garden somewhere and hear the sound

of forgotten nature, rather than hear the washing machine

spin again today, I want to see a pretty woman

who I will never see again, smile

as she changes her mind and sees her lover’s

open arms and secretive heart, seduce her

in a different way),

but all is fine, I read

for a while, and then I write,

hopefully,

pregnant pauses scatter themselves

between moments of elation,

and frozen pieces of Time in which

I scold myself,

Hate

Myself… despair for the keys underneath my finger

tips…all is well in the course of the repeated action,

safe behind the door, wake at five,

buried alive by the consuming nature

of repeated actions.

Ian D. Hall 2020