(20 minute poetry)
pushed in and crushed in
It beats me every time
I stand in line
It’s what polite people do,
but these morons with blank looks don’t play fair.
I care less about them than they care about me
any fool can see that although
squashed flat against the door
I’d need eyes in the back of my head
that being said, albeit quietly,
don’t want them to hear me.
I get to where I’m going without once throwing up.
Monday’s no fun day since Sunday bowed out.
now’t I can do ‘cept jumping the queue and I’m too old for athletics.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.