Lost

Picture this: two thirty on the hottest night in June

He awaits for no reason and checks his watch by the moon

And his mouth feels as dry as his eyes as he struggles to rise

and stops to contemplate his [wife's?] eyes as he does up his flies

He finds his slippers where he left them under the chair

behind the two cups and an old copy of Marie Claire

And he switches on the coffee machine that, of course, works like a dream

Catches sight of his reflection in the silver surface sheen

and it's a face he knows well, although it should look less abused,

with all these moisturisers and the skin products he used

As he moves through the kitchen his homage to brush steel,

across the new pine flooring that's plastic but looks real