Not At Home (Poetry)

The sun this morning gleams
its worn October smile
that lacks real warmth
a thin cold-caller selling
the odd day of doubtful worth

Ungraciously, I tug the blinds
allow this chancer in
notice he doesn’t stop to wipe his feet
but pours on through and spots
my failings on a cobwebbed shelf

I shrug — so what?
Days drift to years
all things pass
the dust won’t thicken much
so I’ve been told

Besides, I have more pressing things to do
(here I grab a pen and make a note
next time he calls he mayn’t find me in ...)
eventually the light moves round
and finds its own way out