No, I’m not buying new slippers just yet.
And no, I’m not getting my dressing gown out.
Nor my pyjamas.
Boxers will do.
And my cozy murder mysteries can snuggle against each other
on the bookshelf for another month.
So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Sherlock Holmes.
I’m riding Autumn out till Winter arrives.
I love to feel the cold, he says. The cold keeps you sharp, alert. You don’t fall asleep at the wheel when you feel the cold. Your nerve ends ping. The world sparks. There’s no sloth, no lethargy in the cold. Only pure need which is why I’m out here now loping along beneath a lycanthropic moon.
Like cats lapping milk
I lap up the delicious
Warmth of evenings.
The timid sun
Peeps through a mouse-hole
In the fog
John Malone 