Here is the second of the catch-up days. All poems, as said before, have already been written. This is just posting them up.
The smallest one hid
at the back for photos,
an innate shyness caused
by always being the furthest away
from warm embraces.
While all the others
are fawned over, it simply sits
and waits for its turn, which never comes,
until eventually it is disowned,
left alone in the deep cold.
One day someone came to visit,
it passed all the others with perfunctory nods
until it came to the smallest,
at the back as always,
and smiled, said hello.
Pluto smiled back.
The bin in work is not just a bin.
It is not simply there
to hold the discarded items
that retail invariably brings –
packaging, faulty products.
It is also used as a ‘wet floor’ sign,
something to apathetically kick
when it is too hot and I am crabby.
It is also a beacon.
It is the first thing I see, bold red,
as I am opening the door.
A warning light to let me know
the next eight hours of my life
will be tedious, annoying
and preciously not mine.
The tall wide man
with skinny legs and
struts in front of the mirror.
His arms a map with only
one indicated ordinance feature;
a detailed topography of his
veins. He lifts a dumbbell
with a constipated grunt over his head
and strains. Cannon-balls jostle
for supremacy under stretched-out skin.
Next to him, a short squat man,
wide and less detailed quickly
loses enthusiasm halfway
through a routine. He looks at the tall, wide
man and considers his form,
the time masturbated away
aiming for what is seen as perfection.
Two minutes later, the squat man
is asking to cancel his membership.