So much happening just now, but I’ve managed to make time for my second November stanza. I don’t have an over-arching theme or strategy this year, so who knows what I’ll end up with.
I’m doing a poetry course currently where we have been invited to eavesdrop shamelessly in cafes, on buses, wherever. Dutifully I put in my hearing aids and tried unsuccessfully to hear a number of conversations, and then hit gold with a young man telling this story to an older man, possibly a co-worker in his new place of employment. To give the speaker his due, he did lower his voice a little for his story’s key word. My asterisks aim to be a visual equivalent.
November verse 2: Overheard The night’s already far too busy – too much work, I’m there till two. A manager gets in a tizzy: ‘Chairs need moving, now, by you.’ That’s two of us and forty heavy chairs up stairs, looks like I’ll never make it home, I’m in despair and jokingly – she’s sitting there – I say, ‘You fat c**t, move a muscle.’ Just a joke. Amused, she ain’t. She makes a serious complaint. Snowflake, woke shit razzle dazzle, just a dreadful passing row. A good man, me. It's over now.
Me fail? I fly! 