Soliloquy

The day begins on the edge of the sidewalk;
I leave it at the bottom of the hill,
cross over to the other side and repeat the act.
The rest of the morning passes by keeping its
fingers crossed as I speak my heart out.

When it starts, it sparks of being fresh off the mill
outpouring its joy at reporting others’ misfortune,
I wince as I pour it a cup of tea out of
sheer courtesy and acceptance at what it
has achieved; it does not return my smile.

The clock stops chiming once it realises
that its significance is lost upon me;
it instead turns its attention to more
pressing matters that have taken their breath
away with more hoopla than you ever did.

By the afternoon it is crumpled with stale news,
I give it the once-over although the yews
still stink with the odour of remembrance
and its more elastic companions; the yellowed
pages grimace as I fold them back neatly again.

In the meanwhile, it competes with the pretty
anchor on TV who has misunderstood the meaning
of being impartial; it responds by pushing the
photographs of a semi-nude struggling actress
into the page beside number three.

By the evening it has lost all interest in me;
the parched, wrinkled piece of paper that it now
resembles is a far cry from what it will be
when I shall pick it up again tomorrow;
I lie down in anticipation.