A Nameless Day

The distant murmur of combustion accompanies chattering magpies agitating for their daily feed; all I want is another hour of sleep.

Sixty minutes later, the bus has me sitting under swaying acrid armpits, suffocating in the early morning cocktail of sweat, diesel and over-applied perfume.

The morning meeting is the usual melee, the slumped and downtrodden being kicked by misguided managers with earnest expressions, who in turn are smothered by placid contempt.

My joyful escape to the refuge that is lunch collides with the mid-day heat; it sits on me.

Funneled by vicious constructed canyons a light easterly scours my skin and desiccates my mind.

It’s days like these that send me to the verandah spending the evening with Boags, enjoying the hops, slightly bitter, but sweet on my tongue as my pen slices through those hollow men.

 

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