When even sticking on
the telly for lunchtime
neighbours is a bit of an
effort?
When you guzzle milk
instead of tea ‘cos
you can’t be arsed
to wait for the
kettle?
d’y’ever just sit
in an armchair for a whole
afternoon and think
how it felt to be cast in
ironside?
or count up the
speckles on a
woodchipped wall?
sometimes after
casualty I think I’ve got
cancer,
I think that I’m dying
when I’m really just
bored.
Source: Summers, P 1998, The Last Bus, Iron Press.
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