Sunday morning. The weight of indecision. 
A dwindling bank account. No meat in the oven. 
No flowers in the vase. Dregs of cocoa in a white mug. 
What will be sold this week to keep the wolf from the door? 
The song is a lie. Bury your head in the blankets. 
Summer wasn’t enough to keep you going this year. 
No money for lightbulbs. Only enough washing powder 
for two pairs of underwear. The song is a lie.
Nothing easy about your Sunday morning.
*
Spam fritters in tapioca wasn’t the culinary delight Melissa 
had in mind. Charlie burped loudly. Better out than in, he said. 
Melissa got up and left the greasy spoon to search for a real 
restaurant serving proper food.
*
Black coffee in a little blue cup with trees on it. A biscuit 
and a glass of milk. The sea is coming to get her, she thinks. 
Two gulls flap their wings inches above patches of mud. 
Behind her a dim lamp below a two-foot mirror. A blackboard 
of enchanted vines and branches. A black metal-framed bed 
with white duvet thrown back to reveal a mobile device. 
The room is now infused with a dark aroma. Two floors 
down, someone prepares a full English breakfast. Outside, 
another street sweeper goes slowly by.
*
A loud rumble through unfamiliar walls. 
Drowning out little voices waiting for change.

Steve Urwin is a diarist, ranter, multiple poetry slam champion and writing facilitator from Consett, Co Durham. He is active on the north-east poetry scene, with several collections to his name.

Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com.