We measure the alcove beneath the window,
or try to, while the cat imagines
the world as a silent movie.
Of their craft,
a famous director said
you’ve got to leave enough space
for the outside to get in.
Or something like that. Anyway,
isn’t it funny that the pictures on our walls
are from galleries and not of each other?
(clearly, no is the answer.)
For a change, I try leaving the bathroom window
open, letting all manner of undesirables
inside. A whole afternoon of rain,
a wasp drowning in the bathtub.
That night we have it out while
Huw Edwards signs the news.
Nothing is ever quite lived in until
after something has lived in it.
George Aird is a writer based in the North West of England. His previous work has appeared in The North Magazine, The Interpreter’s House, Under the Radar Magazine, Birmingham Literary Journey, Eye Flash Poetry, and Ink, Sweat & Tears, among other publications, and in 2019, his poetry was shortlisted for the Maírtin Crawford award. Follow him on Twitter: @G_Aird.
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