With his mouth wide open and his eyes wide shut he gulped at air but not enough. Not enough to fill those lungs, those lungs that yearned for something more than perfumed air, a passing stare, a tourists glare, the misfit yawns but does not care.
His thoughts rotund as he stares into space, a pedantic escalator dictates the pace of the slow moving day, his pedestrian dreams seem to flit away. But before he knows it he’s off again, the misfit yawns and so begins a cycle known as bored as fuck, simple as that, as much mental stimulation as an inebriated rat. But that’s a choice the misfit makes, not an error of his ways. Just restrain those dancing feet for an hour or so as he thinks of food or drink or pastures new or why he’s at work at a quarter past two and not chatting away with friends or down by the sea or watching Jeremy Kyle on ITV3.
So as he finally gulps some precious air, the management stare, it’s hardly fair, the misfit yawns but does not care.
A poem I wrote whilst working at Harrods…bored.