I tell my wife the pig named Alfristan is dead.
I’d been playing football in my dream with a Space Hopper.
“I hope you were able to beat it,” she said,
Her faith in me is not great. Vegan curry for dinner.
A Great Tit grasps the lattice of my open window,
Takes a cautious look, then flies a turn inside;
Perches on the lampshade, knows the artificial glow,
Drops a chalky deposit and flutters back outside.
In these self-isolating times, we sleep in separate beds,
Four weeks plus, and all that lingers is a dry cough.
The habit of distance has taken lodging in our heads,
We live at home, apart; shared evening meals enough.
Alfristan woke every morning thinking of sin.
I wake from Hieronymus dreams to distancing.
Then uninvited and absurd, nature wanders in,
Sits, shits and leaves me bleakly wondering.
Published only for flash fiction, not for poetry since the school magazine.