I am so tired of our tiny flat

I hate the urban rooftops

And the grey people in the streets

Sylvie is in the coffee bar

I can see her red apron clearly

Muddled unfinished papers

Lie on my wooden desk

My great unfinished novel

The Secret Loves of Cacti

Will never reach the bookshops

I have grown so bored of it

Since Rebecca died in the fifth chapter

She did not deserve her fate

It has begun to grey rain again

I will need to close the window

But the room should to be aired

Southampton are now four down

And Crystal Palace have equalised

The rest of the games are goalless

Games on Tuesday evenings

Can be so predictable and boring

Sally is in Australia at present

How I hate her luck with money

You have been out there for two weeks

But have not thought to send photographs

You know how much I love the beaches

February is not a pretty month sis

Fulham have just scored

I will to close my day

And pick up Sylvie in ten

We are planning to go to the cinema

But have not decided on the movie

Fulham two nil the radio fades

The concrete stairs echo tediously

I look up and note that the wing window is open

We do not have anything worth stealing

A steaming cup of coffee awaits me

Sylvie is chatting to Marine

Who resembles her in certain ways

I might resurrect Rebecca

Who knows maybe

I will discuss it with my pen