It’s the sort of day with spit but no polish,
the sort of day when a neighbour makes hay
with my husband’s amiable manner
and extracts a maybe to sort out her fruit trees.
It’s the sort of day you say, It’s that sort of day
to help you get through. It’s the sort of day
I fall in love with a Japanese man
for the way he stands magnificently
in his trunks while his daughters play croquet.
It’s the sort of day a towel serves
as a skirt, and a jumper as a headscarf,
the sort of day eyes jump from horse rider
to horse rider in the bay. It’s the sort of day
a father drags a pram across the sand backwards,
the sort of day a fat baby tries to catch
fat feet, the sort of day when not just thoughts stray.