Ways of Seeing an Abandoned Poem

Hunched over a bar, perched uncomfortably on a stool, nursing The Corpse Reviver Number 1.
Vaulting out of the windows in the gallery class, fragrant with village soil and a tea master’s dream, as i drone on about etiquette.
Standing at the window of the study, curtains parted looking balefully at the book that’s on the seat next to me as i drive away.
Chasing the winter sun all over the lawn, that one last piece of warmth as the day sets on me doing the very same thing.
Covered in peels, reacquainting with compost, as i idly carve a thin slice from a green apple. The burst of freshness on my tongue makes me smile. The poem’s glare is orangeapple.
Waiting impatiently at page 261, tapping a foot as i linger many pages ahead caught up in the beauty of a shoulder catching the afternoon light.
Perched on the washing stone in the sun-soaked backyard and watching, as i pluck kaffir lime leaves for my evening cocktail.
Leaning against a chair, irate, as i fuss over placemats and table runners, delicate champagne flutes and heavy forks.
Draped across the antique jewellery box, up to here in silver chains and copper bangles. I lift an earring to my hair, and I sense a pout, as though i have chosen a favourite piece.
Humming with increasing anger, as i strum my guitar and sing songs to an absent beloved.