Basket case

There is a smudge on my computer screen trying to clean it with spit,
but no, perhaps it is finger marks left behind by the strange people
Who sits in the back of the computer shop?
Their diet is cola and chocolate; they are thin, bald and weedy looking
I must whisper to them, or they shrink away.
They sulk if I disagree with their diagnosis, it will take time to get
my computer back.
When the owner closes the shop, they climb into toolboxes, the ones with
the helpful drawing of a screwdriver, maybe the smudge is a camera
watching me
when I have a drink tonight, I’ll pour it in the bedroom then go into
the bathroom and smoke a cigarette
buy a can of coke a bar of chocolate, eat and drink in front of the screen
and they will say, look, he is a basket-case like us.