Now the world’s jobless again

and the government’s stopped threatening

to buy you an alarm clock, you can safely

get up every afternoon and campaign

for the right to work;

be back by midnight re-jigging

the first paragraph

of your novel that’s not

exactly a novel. 
With your new orange sweater

and the big fat Easter egg you hide

in the cupboard when anyone visits,

you’re every auntie’s favourite

charity. The skin disease

you’ve been cultivating

is coming along nicely. 
After we last spoke,

I checked my wallet and my soul

and found some part of both

missing. In more innocent times

you’d have gone to the gallows for being

a waste of valuable oxygen

or someone would simply

have set you on fire.

But petrol is expensive

and no one can be arsed

to do the paperwork.
You potter about the epochs, happy

to be everyone else’s fault.