Summer Deserter

The people outside are living too much,

I can hear them. "It's too hot out there" I remind myself,

as if I needed reminding,

the fan blowing across my face was proof enough.

"But you can't stay inside in such good weather" I relent, putting on my slack pyjamas, but I remain bare chested, wandering downstairs

towards the back door,

to the light, the fire. Stepping out on to the slabs in the garden,

dodging the bird shit on the floor, I find a deck chair with more bird shit laid perfectly on it. I turn around to head back inside for a cloth.

I step on a small sharp stone. This is not my idea of heaven and I end up back inside, at my desk, writing this.

R. Kirk is a person from the UK who loves many forms of poetry.

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