Anton Rose

With sleep, slippery, evading my grasp,
I ease myself out from under the covers,
stumble toiletwards, and piss.
The dog is wide-eyed too, and when
she runs to the back door, tail awag,
I open it obediently.

Grass underfoot, the black air is brisk,
scant guard provided by evening attire
of pants and slippers. The dog, donned
in her fur coat, takes the chance
to piss too, and together we smell the air:
trodden cut grass, barbeque embers,
and a strange sharpness from the wheelie bin.

The lawnmower sits pathetically,
an embarrassed relic of a job unfinished.
Rake in hand, I sweep at the grass,
now clogged with thin water, and glance
to either side to check lights and curtains,
in case the neighbours, too, are awake at this time,
watching my half-naked display, stage-lit
by moonlight.

ANTON ROSE lives in Durham, U.K. He writes stories and poems while trying to finish a PhD in Theology. His work has appeared in a number of print and online journals, including Structo, The Alarmist, and The English Chicago Review.