Lousy

Lousy – a word that drags its heels
through a drizzle‑slicked pavement,
the sort of day when the sky feels
like a grey woollen blanket pulled too tight.

Your tea turns bitter, the toast is burnt,
the bus lurches like a tired old lorry
and the queue at the chip shop snakes
past the cracked neon of the closed‑down theatre.

Even the football match on the telly
seems a lousy affair – a muddy scramble,
missed passes, a referee whose whistle
sounds more like a sigh than a call.

Yet in that lowness there’s a quiet charm:
the honesty of a soggy sock,
the camaraderie of shared complaints,
the way a lousy moment can make the good
shine all the brighter when it finally breaks.