melancholia

i sit and eat my crisps.
noisly, to spite my flatmate.
who is not paying me enough attention
which makes me up my toddler actions.

they are dull crisps, cheap squares
bubbly and burnt wafer slices.
i think of all the semicircle edges
trimmed into the wastage

the factory workers scooping
them into foodbags on fridays
perks of the job- a lunch staple!
for the lads at saturday's half-time.

the pretty northern terraces
they trudge home to at 3 p.m
to wash their emulous knees
so eager to strike the ground.

......

being dragged out of my imagination
to absorb more useless information
if you knew me you wouldn't attempt this
i'm idling! it doesn't require cogs for listening!

and as if being woken at an unreasonable hour
-which also isn't advisable-
so my eyebrows brace themselves for a shoving.
and i rise, for the kettle is bubbling.

the switch clicks, the steam subsides
(i've written these lines before-
in probably my favourite poem,
no-one yet understands it)

and i pour out the frothy hot water
watch the limp bag rise so smoothly
breathe out this agression of nothing
automatically make you a cup too.

you warily watch me returning
i smile a gesture of something
i put things aside, look up to your smile
you start talking- yes, i'm listening.