Aks

I stir my words into coffee cups,
Waiting for my share of sunshine 

In my garden of weeds and wilts.

It stares at me - the ceiling 

The colour of sour cream

The cob-webbedd fan looms limp.

Afternoon siestas are slippery 

My sandcastles drip, drip, drip,

This is all the sky I will ever get

Trapped in soap suds and balustrade.