Busted by the sun’s burden
Upon my face; laid waste in this
Suburban yard without a stick to
Measure myself against in ownership
Or borrowed state.
Sat in its penumbra
Thumbing tab ends every which way
As I’m too lazy to get off my fat arse and
Throw them over the wall, and my flicking
My side shaded now
The light has laden itself
Further west, having fished the
Flesh from Britain’s witless faces and
Divided down the
Bridges of noses: either poking into
Other people’s business and broken by
A weight of bones, or aloof to the charred
Barking of summer.
And all this flits by
As I lie idle half in and
Chafed out by this lazy week’s
Beginning, waiting for my forty third,
And first birthday with him.