Ordinary Time

Half seven. Toast is burnt again.

You're doing the crossword in biro,

which is either confidence

or something I've stopped asking about.

The dog's asleep on my foot.

The football's on with the sound off.

Absolutely nothing is happening,

and I keep waiting for my life to start.

I've been living in the trailer

for a film that doesn't come —

This is ordinary time. (ordinary time)

This is the whole thing.

Not the wedding, not the promotion —

the burnt toast and the biro.

Ordinary time. (ordinary time)

One day I'd pay everything I own

for a slow evening like this.

The ones who got the call at four

will tell you, if you let them:

they don't miss the big occasions.

They miss a normal afternoon.

Somebody humming down the hall.

Somebody moaning about the bins.

It all turns holy the exact second

it stops being available.

So I'm here on purpose, now, tonight,

while it's still boring to be here —

This is ordinary time. (ordinary time)

And I'm saying so out loud.

Not the milestone, not the story —

the dog, the crossword, you.

Ordinary time. (ordinary time)

The good years never announce themselves.

They just look like a slow evening.

Eighty-year-old me would sell the house

to stand in this doorway

for ninety seconds.

Ninety. That's all he'd ask for.

This is ordinary time. (ordinary time)

Phone face down on the arm of the chair.

Looking at you doing nothing

like a man who knows the price.

Ordinary time. (ordinary time)

And I worked it out in time to have it,

which is the whole of the luck.

Which is the whole of the luck.