Let’s lockdown with the Scrabble board,
have a rummage in the tiles,
and conjure words of hope and love
to pass the time awhile.
And if you’re short of consonants,
you can have a few of mine.
Hang on – what does ‘PRAXY’ mean?
No, whatever, I’m sure it’s fine.
Now you’ve set down all your tiles
on a triple word score, too.
Great. That’s the Q I’ve just acquired
and you’ve taken the last U.
I used to think we were meant to be,
but now I just don’t know.
You spelt ‘JUVENILE’ with your tiles
right where I’d planned to go.
Wearing my most daring
tank top, I arrived downstairs
just before quarter to eight;
the invitations I’d sent out
ten days before
had clearly stated it started
at seven thirty-four.
I put on Russians by Sting.
It wasn’t long
were in full swing.
As so often, on such occasions,
I made for the kitchen,
with the Pringles,
who were delightful,
and twenty rather nonchalant
Six skittish tins of Fosters
enticed me back
into the sitting room
to join in with the party games:
Hold the Parcel (forty-two minutes),
followed by a few rounds
of Musical Statues
(defeated each time
by a po-faced Victorian floor lamp),
a game of Sardine,
in which I hid
inside the airing cupboard,
for three days
on an inexpertly-folded fitted sheet
until I found myself.
slow burning days drag by
as the smouldering fag ends of hours
turn themselves to ash
sleep smugly on dusty shelves,
uncontrite at their incompleteness,
next to a well-thumbed
Robert Harris and the fortnight
stretches like old laddered tights
evenings drab with scrabble
and the death rattle of yahtzee dice
provide no substitute
for videos of piano-playing cats
instagram selfies, status updates
and Lionel Richie memes
instead this, the buffering
and the suffering and the shutters
which rattle in the wind