My Day - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Little Venice - a Neighbourhood of London

For many years now I live alone

in a tiny single room by the canal.

I have no photographs on the walls

there are no books on the shelves

and the wireless broke years ago.

I feel nothing, I need nothing, I want nothing.

I do not read the papers and hardly watch TV.

Each Friday I go out to buy groceries.

I make polite conversation with the

shop assistants and my doctor thinks

this is good for me. But I always rush back

to the safety of my silent room

with the faded old pattern on its walls.

Once in a while I travel to the shop

in Charlotte Street to buy flowers

but she is never there.

This always upsets me and my doctor

thinks this is bad for me, even though

this is the only time I feel alive.

Like most other days, today I'm sitting

at the window staring through the grimy

glass at the little boats on the water.

It's late in the afternoon, the end of summer

and the days are now much shorter.

The street is dark and nearly empty.

I stare at the young girl
sitting on the bench across the street.
I cannot see her clearly but, I fool myself,
I know it's her— it's always her.

I watch her quietly until she leaves—

she always leaves by eight o'clock.

The hours pass until it’s time for bed

but I don't move. I know sleep will not come

and the nightmares will soon begin again.