Sleepin ida kitchen

Laureen Johnson

Waakened ida face o da microwave,
reckit oot a haand an fan waa, an unit doors.
Turned ower ta see da glöd
o peerie red light bulbs
lined up brightly alang dim laandmarks
laek da Nort Mooth o Lerook harbour.
Windered, for a meenit,
what da hum o da freezer wis.

Sheets never fit on a bed-settee.

On da pulley abön my head
looms yesterday’s line o flapsin washing,
turned inta lemse ironing.
Da kitchen table seems a height,
wi cushions aff da cooch an cassen-aff claes.
A pair o breeks
is hingin fae da mug-rack.
I set me feet
in a six-inch space
an reck me glesses aff da bread-bin.
Things sharpen up,
enough ta see crumbs.

I widna winder
if we’re no contravened some rule or idder,
aboot hygiene in food preparation areas
or some such deevilry.

But noo,
da kettle, da tap, da tay an da coffee is aa ta me haand.
Me jacket is no far awa, da front door haandy.
I could be fed, cled an gone athin twartree square feet an twa meenits.
It feels a bit laek a caravan holiday.
No lang ago, wha hed mair space as dis?

Space, dey say, is expandin
ever fae da Big Bang.
Fower in a room turns intae a room apiece,
an by an by, it’s a hoose apiece,
an hooses wi een or twa fock athin dem
keep gettin bigger an bigger.

We clear, we rigg, we faald, we shiv awa;
levers an springs will click da bed fae sight.
We shön remove aal evidence
at onyeen wis sleepin ida kitchen.
Da box bed, I’m tinkin,
whatever an whaever lay athin him,
stöd aa day.