So you got up and fed the cat. That’s something.
You hauled one leg, then the other, out of your
pyjama bottoms, and you fought doggedly across
the rugged terrain of the landing. You wielded
your toothbrush like a club. You stood under
the shower’s strafe for as long as it took
to deter the enemies under your skin, if just
for a while. You got yourself dressed: trousers,
T-shirt, socks – the kit. You sat for a bit then went
to the shops for milk and fruit, whatever your tired
gut could take. You wrote. That’s something.
Even read a bit too. You talked with your wife –
only half hearing through the hounding static,
but you talked nonetheless. You watched
some show about the Vikings. That’s something.
That’s something. And when the day was done
you dropped heavily into bed, your mind bulging
with a thousand tiny battles, a thousand mini victories.
(published in Every Night is Full of Stars,
ed. Aoibhin Garrihy, Bonnier Books)