Bowlers are rolling *****,
***** they call bowling *****,
Striking the bowling pins,
Making them rolling pins.

The shuttlecock, served,
Goes over the net.
I'll probably lose
The dollar I bet.

The birdie in flight
Flits like a sparrow.
She hits it so hard
It darts like an arrow.

I smack it as hard
As I can possibly smack it,
And, wouldn't you know it,
It's stuck in my racquet.

We moved back into the residence yesterday - we were jubilant - and had a slumb-over last night, to celebrate our reunification. We woke up joyous, on the right side of the same bed (slumb-over), and we’ve been bouncing off the walls ever since.

We’re in the ‘settling in’ phase, restocking our Keurigs, getting our same-’ol furniture in the same-’ol places, picking up our books. In this liminal space, between sugarplums and sutures, our shrinking free-time will sag with increasing weight. Even last night’s normally fabulous martinis began to taste metallically laced with formaldehyde.

Once we’re settled in, our leisure will begin to have the tight, mangled fit of a borrowed jacket. “We’ve got to gear up.” Lisa said, just this morning and even as I type this, my eyes are flitting between my dog-eared copy of Gray's Anatomy and the mcat prep hub.

Classes start in 5 days. Free days burn bright, but disappear in a blink. Time is a precious coin.

slumb-over = slumber party.

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidely symbolistic manner of preparition in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

I daydream
Far more than the average
Soul,
Easily distracted
And lost
In a haze that invites
Visions of the future
While deadening the
Thump and Clang
Of the present.

I imagine
Springtime light
Through the windows,
Languid time entangled
With you,
Not a slave to time
Or work,
Or the impatient
Buzz-Buzz-Buzzing
Of my alarm.

I hope
I live long enough
To fulfill my promise
To you,
To share a life
Unburdened
By the cares
Of time,
Of work,
Or another man's
Demands.

Saturday: bags-day.

Groceries, sport, and ******* --


The day of unrest.

we spent three hours of my life
on a takeaway
watching a further hour
tick away on a film
bought on Netflix
that I'd half already seen
through my eyelids
an hour wasted on a book
before bed which I'll
finish reading even though
I lost interest in the plot
early on but feel obliged
to see how it turns out
then sleep, one of my few
free pleasures before alarmed
awake by Alexa who I spent
nearly a whole day on
just so I could get up
and do all this **** again
so I can afford more stuff
to fill my empty time