Beneath
stratus of stupor, stop light glimmering;
Rihanna’s
solo bleeping on a low key and amidst skulls bouncing,
Was
a ratty stoned beery boyo. Age - more or less two scores
Raptly
glued to the television set, brows sharply raised,
Attention
locked on the news. Bottle in hand, stubs on table. “First, the headlines...”
Tension
calmed, it was politics. F.G. had something effaced
That
somewhere constituted an eye sore. Known for incessant whines
On
injustice, sports, joblessness; in the game was he for job hunt
Like
tongue with peppery sensation. His want?
Auditing
firm, good spondulicks, and all. Surveying CV,
“I
can’t” laden. No ICAN? ...Response: “not too necessary”.
Grown
delusion; dead ambition. Indolent inmate; how sorry
Beholding
such waste. BWin losing streak candidate. How would it be
Peeking
years from now? Seconds of churchyard noise all over
Cut
in: “Time for some commercials. We’ll be right back shortly”, sweetly said
The
boxed lady – fair facade, bloody lips, sober suited.
“Why
cover my beer?” bartender interrupted. “Won’t I pay?” blurredly he said.
“Have
you paid for yesterday? ... Three ultimate bottle?” bartender countered.
“Okay!
Okay! Okay! Will see to it later. Let the beer be; she has done no wrong”
Bartender
raged: “Just pay and leave”. Tone compressed, “crazy and lazy man”.
Honking
chairs; break in: “Hello there! Are you tired of searching for your dream job?
Here
is the opportunity you have been waiting for.” Surprised - “Ah! Who
Has
a Reynolds or a Leo Smart there?” No feedback; ghost speaking.
“Hurry
now! Call these numbers ... and walk your way up to success; the dream
Job
waits.” Thumbs nodding, phones giggling. “Hheem, sorry please,
Did
you get the numbers?” A glare replied: “No!” seemed perturbed.
Asked
he another, “sorry please, did you get the numbers?” glazed eyes starred;
Orifices
sealed. Then came the shallow sob birthing bitterness
“What
kind of life is this? ... No job, no money... nothing... God why?”
Cut
in: bartender rashly- “You had better paid and leave. Here is not a funeral...
Don’t
disturb the customers.” As though stone deaf, bawl continued. Lamentation read:
“God
why me? Why? ...God why? Interruption. The boxed lady lightly:
“And
we have come to the end of the prime time news for tonight. Once again,
The
headlines...” palm caressing cheek; dismayed looking; ogled down
As
though vexed at the bottle and planning a stony fist launch. Any last word?
“Nonsense”,
said he droopily. Bottle raised; lips snogging; gullet pumping;
Cigarette
oozing billows. “Goodnight and God bless. I am Sandra Pepple.” The end.
Comments
Post a Comment