I no longer prioritise, I choose who to disappoint that day
I’m a cardboard loo roll with one sheet left
wet grounds scraped from the coffee pot
a biro tip scratching at paper in circles.
Scrolling through my inbox I hold down
the shift key, select all and mass delete
briefly feel the repose of the therapist’s couch.
If it was important, they’ll chase me.
Working from home means
I can hear my son growing up without me.
Like an ex-lover texting again
saying they need to process
there is another survey asking
do you have confidence in the management?
They never offer a free vote.
Business is autocracy; this is what we vote for
like eating the last stale biscuits because
they are there, and takeaway takes longer.
Such things squeeze my love
leave it to be sifted through each evening
with the daily leftovers.
David Thompson is a poet from Droitwich Spa, Worcestershire. His work has been published in magazines and anthologies, most recently by Acumen, Broken Sleep Books and The Interpreter’s House.