8
Piped-in torture
As I stare into my cup of tea
I remember how much I hate Inya.
Her drone of nonsense,
her incessant mumbling in duet with that flute
both going on and on to nowhere,
while the slow burn inside my head screams.
Knee-jerk self-portrayal: Fortunate child of the sixties. Unrelenting idealist. Architect of peace and quiet. Burned out graphic designer. Planner. Dawdler. Doodler. Compulsion fighter. Retainer. Crier. Believer.
