Of late
that 8am journey
I take every morning
doesn’t seem so bleak as those previous to recent changes
(dare I say, revelations)
taking place within the office space where,
everyday,
ever since I started,
slaved for hours for basic pay
and made my way slowly
making cups of tea
to salary
‘til finally I could smile and honestly could say I had an occupation.
Now I wake at day break
without a single yawn
as I anticipate
what happenings lay await for later.
That day they cleared that desk space
and offered it to him
where they placed a polished name plate
which read only ‘Tim’.
Tim’s American
he drinks Americanos
with an extra shot of coffee
though after 12 it’s strictly camomile.
His uncle went to Harvard,
though he isn’t half as smart as Tim,
and when he’s dead
he’s set to get a great inheritance
and he’ll never have to work again.
His suits aren’t just any suits,
they’re tailored M&S
dry clean only
dry cleaned each week and pressed.
Mine
I bought online and didn’t get the size right
100% Nylon
trousers too tight around the thighs
and the flies bulge out,
it’s been said more than once before,
I bother females working on my floor.
Tim car drives like a dream,
It’s gotta be:
only him in it,
on a straight road
dry
no headwinds
but when it kicks in
it’s such you’ve got to see it to believe it.
It’s a SEAT.
I haven’t even passed my theory test,
I haven’t taken it.
I don’t have a provisional,
I guess I never will,
but then I get a discount rail ticket,
and if I could drive,
there’s still no one I could visit.
Maybe Tim?
Tim once read a whole book on kung-fu,
including how to do moves you won’t know have killed you,
and I’m just saying,
just incase,
you pace up behind him,
even if your steps are silent,
he was telling me about this muscle memory
which means instinctively,
within an instant,
without thinking,
all the training ingrained in him will kick in.
But if anyone harmed a single inch of Tims skin,
I swear I will kill him,
or her.
I swear.
That beautiful skin.
He’s pretty much got a six pack,
almost,
if the light’s right and he sits back,
and he’s just done some crunches.
We’ve hit the gym twice now,
I sat on the static bikes and watched him as he worked out.
Both times I passed out.
My trainer says my 2 litre Tupperware of humus
that I eat every lunch time is not enough.
So, since then,
despite the investment,
via debit card payment,
as a statement for a new way of life that I made,
I’ve decided for those coming up eleven and a half months,
the money I have promised them,
I didn’t even want.
And it was worth it for those 2 showers after.
Those 2 showers,
shared by 2 men,
naked to the flesh,
except for my swimming shorts,
unsure of changing room etiquette,
I’d got it wrong of course,
and once in
I could hardly strip
and alas
the second time
I’d forgot and got in in them again.
but what a thing,
let me let you in
covered in shower gel and shampoo,
Tim bare skinned,
not a stitch in between me and him,
him and I,
water running down our bodies,
not three feet aside,
he’s got
what we call ‘on the flop’
more then
than enough
as required for the job,
and one day
some lucky lady laid beneath,
will receive Tim,
and God bless those that sail within.
all that lather
that I wish I was
I bubbled more than any soap,
just for you and only you,
‘til both of us were washed and free together
and forever in our promises forever,
for forever.
Tim told this joke just the other day
and he had us in stitches.
I can’t tell it like him,
but seriously I thought my ribs would splinter,
ripping out my shirt,
spurting blood all over my
so called collegues,
so much it filled the room,
and filled their mouths,
and drowning
their eyes will beg for forgiveness,
but I won’t give into it,
even Stacy who gave me those three days holiday pay
isn’t innocent.
They all laughed.
She laughed.
They all laughed.
Tim didn’t laugh.
Tim wasn’t there.
I hate the 6pm train,
late every day,
straining at the sides,
containing tired faces,
5 stops for my station,
the flicker of the light strip they won’t replace,
piss stains,
the unmanned ticket station,
vacant without fail.
home to the microwave,
radiating a rotating plate
of perforated Sainsburys basics
meals for only one
made with hate.
Thankful it’s not Friday night
each time I tuck me in
‘cause I can’t stand the 2 days of weekend
without Tim.
(c) Dave Selby 2014
