This week before the New Year
I listen to typewriter keys
The aircon hums a pathetic whirr
In this room where friends come in threes.
I kill time with furtiveness
Pretending to be busy with my scribbles
My ink-stained notebook is a candidate
Witness to lunchtime, snacktime, dinnertime doodles.
This week before the New Year which happens
To be Annus Rabbitus (pardon the imaginary Latin)
I imagine that I am, a writer, or a Poet
Filling my page with tasteless snippets.
I’ve never liked, or aspired to be, Shakespeare
I read Romeo and Juliet for the sex scenes
Though poetry is my juvenile pacifier
I love the way it hugs me, like a well-worn sweater.