I confess, this post is very late. The weekend got away from me. And, instead of the epic week of hilarious poetry I had planned, I’ve felt compelled to write something on the election. Nothing, I assure you, politically motivated, but more…observations. Anyway, this is not the political post. This is two golden oldies from my poetry archive, which, if you are my Facebook friend and have been for a while, you will have already seen (I’m sorry).
The difference is this time, I shall offer a little context where I can.
This first poem is dedicated to my dear colleague, Chohn Jilton (name changed to protect the innocent). Several years ago, we had the first Rain-pocalypse, and Chohn’s ceiling sagged impressively with a MASSIVE LEAK from the roof of our ancient building. When the maintenance people turned up to examine it, some bright spark stuck his key into the middle of the sag, sending several litres of slightly dusty, smelly rainwater across the office. The water (no longer contained) then dripped down the wall onto the electrics for several days – six months later (when the summer was happening) maintenance sent some people to repair the roof. By then, the wall had gone mouldy, and it took an additional eighteen months for said wall to be cleaned and repainted. Oh, Maintenance. Never change. Anyway, Chohn very wisely after that first wet day decided to work from home until the Rain-pocalypse was over, and I was tasked with emptying the bucket that was catching some (not all) of the rain. I was….delighted to help. Of course.
The Leaking Ceiling
Oh Thursday, Thursday, I have to say
You really know how to make my day.
Not a drip, not a splash, not a trickling flow,
But a flood, straight onto electrics, you know.
I’ve mopped it and dried it, and prayed for the sun,
But it’s pretty horrific and not newly begun.
Through the night, the leak dripped,
Through the night, the tiles slipped,
And thanks to the storm, now the ceiling – it dips!
So Thursday, I’m leaving, we’re breaking up,
I cannot cope with your emotional muck.
I long for the weekend, I’m moving right in,
If anyone wants me, I’m drinking the gin.
This poem speaks for itself. Wednesdays are no longer my least favourite day of the week, having been edged out of the top spot by Mondays.
I stand atop of Wednesday, in the middle of the week,
Feeling pretty grumpy, feeling weary, old and bleak.
Yes, I stand atop of Wednesday, underslept and overfed,
Drinking lukewarm coffee, having fantasies of bed.
Not the good kind, with a nice man, who cuddles you for free,
But of darkness, duvets, pillows, my teddy bear and me.
I stand atop of Wednesday, looking at my pile of tasks,
Piling up my stroppy snapping behind a cheerful mask.
I sharpen up my pencil, go through emails that I missed,
Add yet more things and yet more things to my goddamn to-do list.
I smile oh so nicely when the porter knocks my door,
And make helpful, short suggestions for half a minute more.
I smile at my bosses, tell them no task is too hard,
And in the middle of the work day, make by hand a birthday card.
By the time my day is over, I have battled through the shite,
I have vanquished all my jobs with panache and with might.
Yes, I stand atop of Wednesday, when the week is halfway done,
Thinking longingly of Friday; oh, let the weekend come!