Well, get this: I have something I cannot measure in TVs showing Jeremy Kyle, or radios or credits, for amusement arcades.
Or toasters, double decked fridges or sofa beds or cigarettes or priceless paintings or staircases or cytogenetic technology.
No one can see me
Head nodding, eyes rolling.
Or a back garden, or the afterlife, or a iPhone or a ear phone or a ear worm or a n or a memory that makes you think of your childhood that everyone else predictably hates.
I have no wooden floor to dance on or to stand your bare feet on, or a bath or a beer, or a mansion either in Beverly Hills, or Beverley near Hull.
I have no carpet reminders of rides to magical places bought with air miles flown on planes bought from hardware stores on Sundays sitting in gardens.
Seeing flowers look for the sun sinking bottles of wine, barbecues and friends. I have something I can't quantify in this line.
Maybe a future line. It's not in the Facebook feed that makes me feel guilty for not responding to messages, less looking at it.
No one can see me
Head nodding, eyes singing:
It's not the TV remote, Sky multi room or both. It's not the bath I had one Thursday night or the cushions on the side of the settee I've yet to use, nor the X I've yet to turn to.
It's not the opinions we all develop but can't discard, it's not the ones I want to take to my grave.
It's not the memories of someone I knew. It's not the memories of someone I still do.
Nor is it the glockenspiel I mistook for a xylophone, even though I like the sound of both. I don't know what it is.
Spent a lifetime chasing it.
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