Empty time lent shape by the weekly rites
Of chiselling the stubble away.
I concentrate with a tilted head
Buried in books.
I don’t realise for days,
My sideburns on each cheek hang uneven
But does it matter if nobody even sees them?
In this bite-sized poem, Luke Bateman ponders the worth of rites in the absence of daily activity.
Empty time lent shape by the weekly rites
Of chiselling the stubble away.
I concentrate with a tilted head
Buried in books.
I don’t realise for days,
My sideburns on each cheek hang uneven
But does it matter if nobody even sees them?