I might…

Write as I might, interrupt – …
Head in pen, I’ll start …
“Yeees, Up here…!”, “o.k!”
…Perhaps I’ll take-away myself.
Somewhere no thing can find…
Then I shall shed a skin, to a Glass soundtrack,
Reinvent my stream of…
If only.
Such a luxury of time unruptured is for another me,
When, I am no longer Mummy, but just Mum.
When, bi-lingually I can express me.
In mediums as yet unbeknown to myself,
As I know myself, as myself.
And I shall, in mind, expand.
Imagination flexing, diaphragmming the inspirational, synapsing the flux.
Write as I might.
Away from cars revving, Androids whistling, verts popping,
And all this click, click, clicking.
Yes, far. On the green canopied veranda,
With setting mauves and charred ambers.
My ice cubes, slowly, slinking away;
The end of the day, written into stelled fires.
When my pen will tire before I.
Under calming, domed skies, in a home for us,
Not a monthly, paid-for box.
Watching a box as a reward, as wind-down chatter,
Not as a nullified groan, of yet another rainy day.
Write as I might.
Days without chord,
Shops and shopping and shops.
Boredom floors.
No, Today I might spring on tip-toesies,
Hum, hum, humming flatly,
Summing up the yeara in a few lines or so,
A toast to the next,
Where I might just…