in the morning he is sunny

at breakfast he is quiet, lonely
there is no speaking
creaking, wind and leaves
the scraping of his chair

the day the sun didn't rise
he didn't see

in the bedroom he is sleeping
blanketed, comfortably

and in the attic are his boxes
dusty dappled things of thought alive
only there, within

in the morning he is sunny
quite alone
and free
he has no memory
of what it is to be

the grass outside is gentle
a neighbour's cat is company

in the basement are his other
things and he
sometimes goes to see
them and is quiet
when he sings



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