It always surprises me that is is so easy to chew through time when your running around doing chores. For some reason, the usually quiet street is full of vintage cars, their drivers setting a snail’s pace in the hope their car-baby catches the eye and admiration of a total stranger. I guess they are hoping fleeting external validation will fill the void in their soul they think no-one can see.
And then of course the supermarket manager (probably on the advice of an overpaid consultant sent out by Head Office) has completely re-organised the layout of the store. When I think herbs and spices the first things that spring to mind are long-life milk and garbage bin liners. Grocery shopping becomes a ludicrous guessing game of ‘What Was That Guy Thinking Word Association: Frustration Edition’. When I found the rice beside the orange juice & flea treatments for dogs I was overjoyed that I had scored 80% of my list – near enough to enable me to leave that hell hole of fluorescent light and aisle blockers.
After many hours achieving almost nothing except perhaps higher blood pressure, I am home. That most glorious of places in which I can close the curtains and let my inner crazy cat lady roam wild and free. I feel like I invented the day-pajama at least a decade earlier than the rest of the world.
So to ease into the weekend, I have two offerings today! It is a slight cheat as they are a pair of poems, the first was written on one of my journeys into work and the second one a few later while having my lunch in a slightly overcrowded staff kitchen.
Waiting Part 1
Stand behind the yellow line.
Wait to be seated.
Take a number.
Queue starts here.
Rinsed and repeated,
our lives are filled with empty minutes, hours and days
Caught in holding patterns
that eat away energy.
Patiently, listening for our turn:
For that whistle to blow,
Our number to be called.
In the meantime we wait.
Our engines almost stalled.
Waiting Part 2
And then its the green light, the whistle blows.
We lurch forward, hoping for pistons to fire
motors to kick over,
A combined surge of humanity pushed
into gear and on the move.
Tickets please. Swipe here.
Our secret combinations unlock the mysteries of our work.
Unable to open, contact your administrator
Access denied.
Record does not exist.
Stalled again.
We navigate through barriers. Obstacles.
Queries go unanswered.
And we find ourselves once more
waiting behind the yellow line
for our number to be called in
some future time.
Angele Toomey Poetry 