There is predictability

There is predictability

In stoicism

My stubborn reaction

To discomfort

Oh, it’s just a burn

A scratch,

A cut, a bruise

What’s a broken finger

A broken toe

A few stitches

Between friends

In search of the grail

What is it with allergies?

Get over yourself,

You soft ha’peth.

My eyes are streaming

Nose itching and sneezing

But I will be damned

If I am forced to move.

I will sit and drink a beer

Peer through the tears

At a screen

Pretend it matters

A jot if I write

Or not,

When it is nothing more than

Tommyrot

Anyway.

Whatever,

It is a lovely day

The air is thick with the pollen

Of Plane trees

Which are more complicated

Than their name suggests

If you ask me.

The onslaught

Of fine dust

Is just an inconvenience

An irritant

It is my balcony

I will sit on it

Watch the world unfold

Before me

I will not be locked in

Behind a fire door

Hermetically sealed

I am not a prisoner

Or a number

I am a free man

For whatever that is worth

In an age of

Autocracy

And anti-pluralism

Oh gosh!

Wash your mouth out,

The damage is already done.

My eyes are red and sore

They will not recover

This side of winter

When it will still be warm

Enough

For a mad Englishman

With a sneezy snuffle

To sit outside

In the noonday sun.