I pick up a few clothes

I pick up a few clothes

Fold them away

Socks and pants

The little things.

My back burns

With a hot knife when

I straighten

It is always the little things

The long walks under the stars

Counting steps

On the Esplanade

Listening to a woman sing

She is in her kitchen

The blinds are closed

If she knew I was listening

She would drift off-key,

I would.

Nothing is the same

Since the burning came

And never left

The aching rage of life

Trying to do the little things

In the hope

The big things

Will be alright

But they never are

Everything breaks down

Turns to dust

Flutters in the air

Like snowflakes

Dry as paper

It was a lovely tree

A cool colour

It adds depth to grey,

Her hair

When the bleach grew out.

The lost times

From before

When little things

Were just that

And nothing got in the way

Of them, mounting up.

Starched white sheets

Billowing

I am confronted

By an endless plain

Acres of clutter

Mountain high

Too many peaks to count

Too difficult to climb

I’ll just let them be

For a while

They are just little things

After all.

Nothing to break my back over.