I everyday run for the bus. Pouring out the café, a quick stream to the next leg Lateness a subtle concern, a moment ago leafing through Du Bouchet next slicing my shoulder to spud the oyster reader. Punctual to the bus stop, though the bus dropped me a couple minutes late…
It’s been a week and two days since I had an informal chat about punctuality. It may be 2-4 minutes, I maintain they’re negotiably mine. Hours I put in as a nocturnal volunteer forgotten.
This morning I’m on a slightly different route, with a homemade moka pot macchiato, I should be on time now. My time is my own.
I’m unsure about next week. Routine defiance I suppose. A temporal fuck you of four-five minutes. A statement of ownership. An affront to money & management’s side-eye.
8:30 AM and I watch through a mist of resentful defeat,
another facet of this unflinching emotionless machine
A workhouse for the working-poor’s prise possessions.
Afar I see the small distorted faces of those told of their malevolence and evil,
those encouraged to leave quietly,
to think of others, to not make a fuss, being quietly squashed by professionalism’s conformist heel.
The Ruling White Males don’t let a glance escape
an eye’s notice a reserve of punishment and discipline;
too valuable for the mundane pleasantries of the young’s every day.
The Black Females, they’re the Bad Kids,
overly loud, tactile and quite too negroid, their hair illegal fitting
A culture unfitting of moral good behaviour.
It seems the Blacks hate the Gays says the one of the Ruling Males,
the division lies in the beholders blind eye,
unaware that many are one in the same.
Nevertheless, the swathes of young cease,
the school’s front quietens,
the Congolese Janitor closes the gate The Males left open.
And it seemed as if hopes were aloft
asunder from liberty’s grasp.
An ethereal hand washes
against the mundane plight.
I must rest my eyes, before
tomorrow’s light stings my eyes.
It lies in the false titles
given to those that bear the fruit.
To gain a recognition for deeds done,
the end goal not always in sight.
See… the warmth is blue,
a sombre heat without light
A form of cold pragmatism,
through exchanges of pregnant love.
You see directions are issued,
But to what end should that suffice?
We don’t all crave a destination, but instead
to be hooked – within two arms.
My eyes flee to all corners of my four walled hold,
liberation grasped through windows, stolen back.
Back to the luminescent glare of my old HP;
as I acquiesce to my paid servitude.
The week’s edge nears as time retreats,
the seconds absconding -drawing You ever closer.
Closer still, the embracing thoughts of Sunday’s sheets,
enveloping me –warm, contented, in your arms.