Late Night, Sunday

When I rinsed my soup bowl
I found it contained an eyelash.
There is a piece of processed cheese
In the kitchen, on the counter
None the worse for its exposure
Sitting plastic-wrapped, hermetic
But next to the stapler
The kiwifruit sit shrivelled.
The work is done, and I am wound down
The fruit and pseudo-cheese shall wait
Until someone else comes to work
In other seven hours or so.
Time to go home, and sleep.

[Hermetic pseudo-cheese is an interesting concept, no?]