Recycling an old poem because the new ones are in the process of being whittled to needle-point in order to be thrown with great force into a crowd of people. I was 30 mins late to work today, and last night was performing a spoken word piece about punctuality, so this seemed fitting. This piece was first published by Shoots & Vines, an edgy little lit blog which went POD for a time and now seems to be defunct. It’s like a plane crashed with my children in it, so I’m cloning them.
I peel grapes while the Red Cross
bangs on the door, begging
for a crumb of humanity…
“I’ll be right there,” I murmur,
lost in non-thought. “Right after
my toe hair stops growing…”
My report is due, was due
an hour ago, but that’s irrelevant.
This solitaire score is something
you only see once
in a lifetime. “Be right there,
Boss, stuck in a minefield here…”
I should call, at least text her,
but I’m just too much
of a perfectionist. It’s just not
that simple to seduce
that kind of calibre; takes time,
energy and… It’s gone.