Work
I should’ve gone after the second,
but it wasn’t far, just a few blocks
in the spitting damp, the white reflections
marking the way—
It was stupid anyway, so much on the mind,
the constant juggle, the longing for last June,
when days were wasted in games and sorting,
tidying is our greatest lie—
Look at her, if only the brolly wasn’t so low,
covering her face—does it match the body,
the black leather boots, shining and wet,
distracting you from dinner—
Another one at the lift—what floor—
whatever fucking floor do you want—
“the same, thanks”—fuck—what work—
you run those final steps—
Once the key is turned it’s time for focus,
zipper down, phone out—this is productive—
two hands make it easier, scrolling and marking—
what’s a bit of piss on the seat?
And then it’s done, and the jacket’s still on—
even more productivity—but the mind
has wandered now, it’s on Netflix and dinner,
black boots, and girls down the hall.
- James O'Sullivan
#28
I can see they know not
Through branches forbidden
Steps upon dust
Mice or woodlice
I’ve seen her die beyond the headrest
And them in play with doll and dress
They come and go
The walking ghosts
I try to speak
But only mumble acute sharp sighs
Creak, coward, cross.
- Blake Corrigan