What I am

I am the moment before the news breaks.
The moment immediately after
the last man gets the joke.

Too early for astonishment,
too late for confirmation of understanding.
Maybe it’s the atheists’ purgatory.
Any purgatory will do,
except
I don’t know what needs to be purged.

I’d like to think it’s my wet purple socks.
Too damp within, too cold without,
and no shoes is good shoes.
Tomorrow, I will be on sick leave.

I am the misfortune that favours a genius.
The affluence of those
who never learnt to discern it.

A rupee short of a cigarette,
a bank of unspoken baloney.
Maybe it’s middle class morality.
Any morality will do,
except
I don’t care for it.

I’d like to think it’s my quick wit.
Too backward for dignitaries, too evolved for dates,
and no booze is good booze.
Tomorrow, I will be quiet.