Inspiration.

We sit together at lunchtime

in you plush new office

with its lime green walls,

the only walls I’ve seen

that are lickably fresh.

I ask you for inspiration

for my poem of the day

seems I’m trying to write

everyday now

to keep tabs on the writers block.

You say

“What about people looking out

for themselves

seems as that is the theme of the day.”

You go off

on a blunt, splintered tangent

spitting out words

like the anti Miss World Pageant.

I nod along

and reach in my bag for

my green coloured packet

of Hula Hoops

as you talk about my loyal work mate,

working for the same company,

same job,

for fourteen years

who is now doing both her job and

her work partner and best friends job

because her best friend

decided to quit and move on.

You continue,

talking about your sister

with her bleeding arse

from a dodgy curry

who is pleading illness,

too busy seeking attention

to ask you

about the moles you had cut out

and emergency tested

over a month ago.

The moles that became wounds

that became scars

that are now so pale

you barely see them.

In that time

she didn’t think to ask

how you were feeling,

if there was any news

or if you wanted support.

Meanwhile, she has one bad curry

and we are all meant to bend over

and kiss her foul smelling arse,

ring her and check that she is doing O.K.

Nodding, I agree it is a theme

of today

but also a theme

of most days.

I open my Hula Hoops,

reach over to you

and ask “Crisp?”

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