The washing machine is rifling my undies
tossing them this way and that
I’ve put out the bin like I do here on Mondays
and strangled a neighbourly cat

I’ve a meal for one prepared to be nuked
the cellophanes poked it looks already puked
I pulled down the blinds to silence the rain
and donned my cilice to distract the real pain

The cycle near finished the drum spinning slows
I lay out tomorrows uniformed clothes
I’m as beige as a shoebox as rigid as nails
living by numbers when everything fails