of grasshoppers,
of soda water with lemon,
or tumbleweed,
or cooking magazines, the ones
I leaf through to take in
brightly lit pictures
of things I will never make

I’d like the lightness 
of the sort of digital clock
you get free in the Readers Digest,
that         flickers with regret after
barely     weeks in-situ
but carries on ticking 

I’d like the lightness
of you as you watch             and immediately forget 
the news,
it’s gone 
and it’s just time to take the pink pill
and then the green one
according to the note
on the microwave

About the Author

Emily Cooke is a Boltonian poet who has spent most of the last year in bed. Luckily this left plenty of time for writing and she has just started to send her work out into the wider world. Find her on instagram @emily_c_cooke