I'm at the bus stop,
thinking about that prick Kit
and how my fallen arches
make waiting so utterly shitty.
Nifty's teachers have asked us
to come in. Apparently he's
being disruptive. I have moments
where I genuinely wonder
if I love my kids. Is this it?
Am I supposed to be grateful
for this pipsqueak contentment?
I try to roll a cigarette -
my skins blow into the road.
Typical. These days, my lower
lumbar's crocked so I have to
make a decision when I stoop.
So this is what it is to be alive.
Gathering fag papers out the gutter.
I snatch up a fistful,
too damp to use
and then, I hear the bus horn.
I look up.
Death's wearing His conductor's cap.
His sockets are full of daylight.
I always knew He'd come back.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
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