My days are spent
With my head bowed over a desk.
Pens and papers in hand, glasses askew,
I work away busily,
Oblivious to my non-existent personal life.
Dark and dank, smelling all damp,
Strangely familiar in a dull, empty sort of way,
I leave the office and go home for the night.
I must buy some groceries,
It’s been days since I cooked.
But why bother when there’s takeout to be had,
and no one to share it with anyway.
I see a nursing mother,
A young father and a toddler,
Buying milk and nappies and flour
and all things domestic; all things special.
I switch on my light and turn up the heating.
I’ve run out of clean cups,
so I take a swig straight from the bottle.
The stale taste of cheap wine makes me wince but does its job.
I eat some of my chowmein while watching
Fifty First Dates on the idiot box.
I glance at my phone every few minutes,
Hoping someone would remember
that there’s a lost woman just waiting to be found.
No messages, no calls, and I take another long sip.
Paired up with store-bought chocochip cookies,
This is heaven and poison for my aging body.
In my younger days,
I bent over the toilet to cleanse myself of such guilt,
Hoping that a tiny waist would reveal my golden heart to someone.
I’m older now to know that such foolishness doesn’t work.
The clock strikes 11 and you knock at my door;
Ready to warm my body,
Working hard at office while your wife puts the children to bed.
You leave before I’m awake and I get dressed for the day.
Tough as nails and,
smarter than the boss;
ready to chase a career,
that will mean nothing to me,
at 11 pm again.