I stagger into the office
haggard with reality.
Newspaper headlines are crisp
as tattoos; pie charts commit
themselves to memory, each
florid tranche refusing to budge
no matter how many cups of tepid
fruit juice I sink.
Coffee gives me the kind of startle reflex
that will only be useful
come the zombie apocalypse,
or in some kind of competition.
The copier boy calls me
'ginless wonder' and takes a golden slug
of Teachers thirstily, slipping me a grin
and licking his thin, mauve lips.
Nobody thanks me.
On the bus home,
the road is one, long cattle grid.
No comments:
Post a Comment