Last November

First thing in the morning,
He trips on the one chair in his room.
He opens the windows
And a teacup falls like a head axed.
The toothbrush slips from his fingers
And, then, the newspaper.
Too much gravity in here, he tells his cat,
And lies down on the floor.

Conformist by C P Surendran, from his collection Posthumous Poems.

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