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Monday morning, March 10

way ahead of myself,

been outside for a walk

already, woo hoo

 

bad-temperedness turns me off

i turn away

 

what’s it like to be

in your sixties

ill and tired

relying on your son’s help

and spoken to like

you’re a stupid old man

you don’t do anything right

fuck there isn’t even twine

without knots in it for

fuck’s sake

fuck — set up for wood

and don’t even have a

supply laid in for winter

fuck fuck fuck

 

when i heard this ranting

i felt ashamed of my friend

and embarrassed for him

a bad-tempered child whose

tantrums are tolerated

and endured

like he is l’enfant terrible

which i guess he is

 

grow up, i think

and

“it’s too bad,” i think,

as i turn away

 

it doesn’t have to be like this

 

but

 

what is, is

 

he’s tired, stressed

yeah yeah

i make excuses for him

no

everyone is tired

everyone is stressed

we control ourselves

we talk like adults

we don’t take out our frustration and anger on

anyone around us

who happens to be available

as if we are little princes

whose every inconvenience

must be lamented

from the rooftops

so everyone else can

share your fucking misery

 

why not spoil their

happiness too, eh?

 

i lie in bed, turned away

as far away as i can get

oh there is love, there is

wanting to hold you close

but there is a barrier

of childish discourtesy

that won’t let me

turn over

and lay my hand

on your arm

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