Truant

So whilst she goodly goes to work, I play schoolboy, bunk off. It's fun.

Repeatedly, pick up, put down, dance around the lie to tell. Hey Work!

I've got Mingerian Flu, I really don't want to pass it on, do you think

And having lost interest, thinking won't be part of

the

equation.

Shit, so sad. Receiver falls. Luckily buzz and angry scream tells me,

That we must tenderly cradle receiver. Unlike me, she, us. God.

The knock on the door passes suicidal thoughts aside.

Gleamily bleary day, cheerfully grab the parcel within.

Postie, get lost. I have my private disinterest

To take me through this self-inflicted pointlessly

stupid stupid stupid

Wrong book, they sent the wrong book again. The same one again.

How could anyone make same mistake again and again and again.

So I'll order it again. And again and again.

This blur of stupidity should shut the stupid birds up

The ones that glory in the day I backed away from. Still,

I phone the order-line again, digit hits digit time and time and

Down, I ask why? Birds scream twitter bitter shitter.

Why are you still here? my Wife asks.

And from the crouching foetal crushing-head with hands, pose

I quietly say:-

Today, I just want to die.

Shutupshutupshutup the reasonable hour has passed,

Yet birds sing on, Wife, who hasn't got time

Stops. I cry. cry. cry.

and dress for work.