The fridge has started leaking  

a puddle across the lino. Shopping  

still sits in the hall – rumpled  

plastic bags noisy as they settle,  

milk squashing loaf, cheese cheek  

by jowl with room-warm eggs.   

The kettle boiled long ago. Though  

the tea remains unmade, because  

I am trapped in this poem. Unable  

to leave until I find the perfect word.