stuffing

With tv off ‘cos sitting here alone
I watch one show after another, relentlessly,
I pick up a book to read a poem.
But I’m unfocussed and invent
A whirlwind of a time now spent.

Tripping through the same old rooms, indulgent,
Nostalgic you might call it, I recreate from memory,
Fabricate from disconnected threads, what seems
A careless time – cooking for you, pouring tea,
When we both lived here - nothing of substance necessarily.

Of course, these conjured images provide
A kind of sentimental, nagging drama,
Emotional stuffing I should ultimately avoid.
Another here is stuffed yet cannot dream,
A toy monkey, munching a banana.

I've

I've popped back to set a few words straight.
I nodded off, somewhere between reading and (w)riting.
Old tosh you say;
Would you consider hanging around for a minute or two ?
That would be nice.
I've precious little else to reveal that isn't stitched all over the show
Here & there.
A kind of valve for all those earlier times when asked what I've been up to I and would reply,
Oh, just writing a bit, you know.
Oh really, what ?
Oh, er, nothing... why ?
Here is the stuff & nothingness.
A place to mutter, sing and cry.