More Than A Kettle Poem by Sailing to windward

His experience of
the slippery danger
of steep, dark stairs
and stockinged feet,
wasn’t going to help.
Barefoot, he descended.

Not one for minimalism,
but that day, the kitchen,
at least, was unusually neat.
That day, less wasn’t more
neither was it, to quote another, “a bore”
At the window cill
he peered through the pain
Still rain, still dark, still.
He flicked the light
spreading the gloom.
Spooned coffee in his cup
and went to flick the kettle too.
No kettle.
Binning the coffee and returning,
with the cup, to the shelf,
he erected the ironing board
to smooth his clean, white,
work shirt. Too late.
No iron. No shirt.