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The fridge is empty again,
emitting its guttural hum;
the light comes on
as if the door to a UFO.

Twenty five past one:
I potter about the kitchen
in slim boxers, looking
as rough as House

and to no avail in cupboards.
All I find is this –
chickpeas, stale bread,
an old-ish can of Guinness;

Shredded Wheat (no milk)
and a misplaced pack of Regals.
I feel the last man awake
on the planet

and the night’s the itch
my thoughts still grate against;
I’m the last man awake
on the planet

and nothing is coming straight.
Beyond the window,
the garden seems to swim about.
I unravel the fags’ cellophane

and absently spark one up;
the striplight’s glow
bats away and out
to leave me alone in the dark.

[Ben Wilkinson's poems and reviews have appeared in publications including Poetry Review, Magma, and the Times Literary Supplement. He writes critical perspectives of authors for the British Council's Contemporary Writers database: His first pamphlet of poems, as yet untitled, will be published by Tall-Lighthouse in November.]

Copyright © 2008 by Ben Wilkinson, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.