Bombay Bliss

It’d be easy enough to term this an exhausting 

day - wasn’t as if there were a million things to 

do, finding anything genuinely needing a span

of attention A.D.D. would distort into an epoch 

that ended before it began was the beginning - 

so we watched RWC Semi-Final #2 at double 

speed twice, it allowed us escape a one-eyed

commentary Foxtel’s Rugby crew feel obliged 

to arbitrate, and it makes the constant replays 

almost bearable - then there was the creative 

session where ideas flo’ into poetry almost as 

routinely as Poppy-napping, & safer if you are 

actually on your bed or chair before removing 

reading glasses to invite falling asleep - 

for a moment there’s peace and contentment, 

waking is light relief as bewilderment few can 

accommodate lurks where eyes fail to sight a 

pair of glasses you’d swear were at hand; oh, 

never mind, the backups are always there on 

that bedside dresser table you proclaim 

and then there’s a fellow-retiree to pay a mind 

to; sure, he’s a Jack Russell Terrier but needs 

to be chaperoned on a walk daily, else he will 

paw your arm to demented pieces - probably 

reminding of more dire things than the simple 

events slipping off-schedule already 

finally its midday; now the mail box trip rears 

into saturnine prominence - more often than 

occasionally there’s nothing as The Postie’s 

been thru but you ain’t got any, or she’s late, 

or worse they’re not your’s, and they’ll need 

to be readdressed n’ sent on anyway - but 

making it halfway means the rest’s a breeze - 

all downhill and easy as pie - & maybe that’s 

what’ll be tea unless whiteboard suggestion’s 

checked express a Bombay Bliss plan; ideas 

that eventuate in a curry take-away are great 

and no Alzheimer debate’s necessitated 

© 26 October 2015, I. D. Carswell