I tuck the blanket around my knees
And contemplate my lovely room,
Where I snooze and read and snooze again
And sometimes decide to write a poem:

All to hand are the mugs full of  pens
For crosswords and sketching and making notes,
And the filtered water, the magazines,
And most important, of course, the remotes

That take me to worlds no longer mine:
The sea roaring in, the wind bringing rain,
Wet sand in the sandals, a dog leaping up -
All I no longer feel, but see on the screen.

And the family snaps of loving toddlers,
Grown into beautiful strangers now,
The books I meant to read in retirement –
Boswell and Finnegan’s Wake – and how

Could I think I would ever have time one day
To read Pushkin again, when the roof is a-leak,
The rubbish room stinks, the caretakers cheat
And the H.L.B. B.G.M.* is next week?

Outside the trees are feeling good
In this wettest of summers, and brightly bold
Are my marigolds in burning bronze,
Astonishing yellow, egregious gold.

*Housing Liaison Board Biennial General Meeting