Good Morning, Marjorie

Paperboy, all my life,

though my bike's beneath the porch,

rusted out, spokes like

West Pier, Brighton,

splayed, the stanchions,

going, but a frozen

scattering in terror.

Getting up, feeling bad about

the wife, 

her dodging runaway

mowers, 

bush clippings

flying everywhere,

the shelled splinters of trench lumber,

children's gripes vanish

in the utterly banal hum,

of leaf blowers:

who was the poorly demon who

frog marched everyone down to

B&Q or wherever?

Deh not dee pot.

The only papers come in

trollies, 

a coupon clipping pettiness

devours Wednesday,

do I feel bad,

fuck it,

you accept price gouging

then you accept your

deal frenzy also.

Thanks for the new shower curtain,

it's why I awoke crying,

I love this place so much,

it pisses me off,

it's the world to me.