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Well, off I am, tout de suite, barefoot but not with child,
abdominals restrained by Haines from prying eyes,
a steady stream of workers under orders of routine
performing rituals while half asleep to reach their favourite chairs,
a LazyBoy recliner with its built-in golden bell, to let her know
when re-supply is due in case she stands and dreams
bent over stainless steel and scrubbing sparkling dishes
endlessly, with her Palmolive Green and Doctor Fuller's brush.
Yes, they are chained like skinny slaves because they owe,
and as my neighbour says, it's off to work they go.
It's Fourex Gold on any weekday out of cans
they sit while waiting for their dinner, sipping beer
and watch the tube on fancy Sony plasma screens.
All celebration is to start on Friday afternoon.
Oh, what a life I say, what waste to vegetate,
peruse the pamphlets from the letterbox to see
which novel item is still missing on the shelf.
And while they count, and finger in their greedy hands
hard plastic cards from altruistic giant banks,
it's me who trots right by their homes, just gaining speed
I work on it, according to philosophy it's crystal clear
that fishes swim while birds will fly and man must run.
When I return the sun has set behind the mine,
I laugh and shudder at the shadows stuck to drapes,
those silly boys get fat and fatter in their chairs
and wait for breaks in the routine which never comes.
We must be active, says the doc to keep us well;
three times a week at rapid pulse and out of breath.
Make no mistake however, reapers hang about,
programming us for coronaries or pressures way too high.
It is your way to pay a trifle of it back, to the community,
your helpful fellow man. You'll join the queue, of course
still sitting on your ass, while watching nurses with their charts
rushing between the stony faces and their next of kin
back to the desk to have a seat and write the news,
about those rhythmic sinus waves and poor old Bruce,
who lost his fight against the golden boys of staph.
A king size towel takes the sweat from red-hot skin,
I fall precision-like into my favourite chair,
before the bell can sing its song a head of foam
inside a schooner full of frost aims straight for me.
It won't be long she now remarks, meaning the food
I give a wave which means I'm ready for one more.
She glances now, a smile of pride and unrestricted awe,
You've earned it all, she seems to say with loving eyes.
Sure did, I say. I am, of all recliner pumpkins, King.
Herbert Nehrlich
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