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.
28 February 2013