brushed cotton

the sheets on my duvet are
brushed cotton:
soft as a cat’s belly, warm as a toaster.
under my sheets is a
mattress topper:
quilted, comfy.

they sandwich me together and
hold me in place.
pin me down in their pillowy teeth.
skip forward eight months and
I’ll still be here.
trapped in myself in dreamless days.

after several washes, the
brushed cotton
roughens.
after months of warm bodies, the
mattress topper
clumps.

november

the silence of parks is fleeting
under the wide oak trees
that shelter us from
empty fireworks

spotlights that search for our bodies
words that form in the leaves
interpret the warning
no more conkers

the spiky husks have dulled to brown
they mix with all the rest
a sea of autumn red
embellishes

we lock the back door behind us
shoes dumped next to wellies
mud scrubbed off trousers
hide it all away