post-it note reminds him:
familiar voices from inside the radio,
the click of a kettle,
the pop of the toaster

the knife scrapes
scattering buckshot over the papers
waiting on the table.

The news nestled between the salt and
cups of tea.
An egg,
a soldier lays
bleeding yellow.

The boards are still up against the window
cracks small enough for him to peer out.

He hasn’t left the house for 63days
and his face itches,
flies are gathering
but he’s not missing human contact.

If it reaches that stage,
if there is a requirement for human
contact he has a plan to kidnap the postman.


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