My life is made of memories of this that and the other.

I live alone, but not quite, I live with my brother.

Sometimes I live in dreams and doze and lots of wishful thinking.

When I am not smoking I may be found out drinking.

I ring up, I write a bit, a letter to a friend.

This poem, like all good things has come to an end.

Tich Ennis

10th June, 2016