The room without signal
is a dead zone.
Nothing to watch, nothing to say.
Only the ratchet of a wind-up radio
and those deep breaths of gale
rising, falling.
Outside.
Afternoon blurs the window pane,
trickles down the gutter.
Is the fitful rattle of my doorlatch
a shadow trying to break in?
Upstairs, among the hunting trophies
and sporting memorabilia,
the family practise tariff-free resilience.
Inspect their stockpile:
couscous
cocoa powder
plantains
quinoa
chocolate-coated waffles
tinned jackfruit
throat pastilles
liquorice extract
edible animal fats.
They wonder whether citrus jam should be called marmalade,
and wait for the football results.
I’ll write to them later this week.
xi. 2026
