31 West Maitland

I dream of a cold-water flat
where your breath freezes
on the air.

Where your socks are full
of holes, snagged
on nails in the floorboards.

Where the kitchen always
smells faintly of cigarettes
& spaghetti; and the radio
DJ narrates your morning coffee.

Where the coffee table dust
is mixed with finely ground
tea and the sofas suck
you into their depths.

I dream of cocooning myself
in blankets and sleeping bag
and listening to the lullaby
of Edinburgh traffic
keep me pleasantly awake.

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