Anton Rose<\/p>\n
With sleep, slippery, evading my grasp,
\nI ease myself out from under the covers,
\nstumble toiletwards, and piss.
\nThe dog is wide-eyed too, and when
\nshe runs to the back door, tail awag,
\nI open it obediently.<\/p>\n
Grass underfoot, the black air is brisk,
\nscant guard provided by evening attire
\nof pants and slippers. The dog, donned
\nin her fur coat, takes the chance
\nto piss too, and together we smell the air:
\ntrodden cut grass, barbeque embers,
\nand a strange sharpness from the wheelie bin.<\/p>\n
The lawnmower sits pathetically,
\nan embarrassed relic of a job unfinished.
\nRake in hand, I sweep at the grass,
\nnow clogged with thin water, and glance
\nto either side to check lights and curtains,
\nin case the neighbours, too, are awake at this time,
\nwatching my half-naked display, stage-lit
\nby moonlight.<\/p>\n
ANTON ROSE<\/strong> lives in Durham, U.K. He writes stories and poems while trying to finish a PhD in Theology. His work has appeared in a number of print and online journals, including Structo<\/em>, The Alarmist<\/em>, and The English Chicago Review<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Anton Rose With sleep, slippery, evading my grasp, I ease myself out from under the covers, stumble toiletwards, and piss. The dog is wide-eyed too, and when she runs to the back door, tail awag, I open it obediently. Grass … Continue reading