Boredom Poem by Sam Preve

At home, sleeping, turning from one side to another,
we awaken to a dull brown ground dressing,
another hamburger and super-sized fries with a biggy coke,
choking on the time, an attendance sheet for slavery.
Calling a friend to go out or waiting to leave, to go again.

There is a monotone voice recycled, very slowly,
the instructor speaks and the words resonate,
repeated from a heater fan-motor sitting in a ceiling corner,
tapping rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, against my skull.
Are there warming minds full of ideas existing outside this?

The parties, clubs, and excursions beyond here,
people singing when they really shouldn’t try to,
“Another please, bartender, ” I say as I look around the room,
slamming the shot I turn back, because he is the only one
hating the boredom as much as me. I taste it against my skull.