Namaste

I know I should

Try counting to ten,

Breathing in through my nose

And out through my mouth.

 

Except I’m livid at the time it takes

To get served in a Pret a Manger.

All I want is a medium mocha.

 

“Are you waiting?”

 

Yeah, I fucking am. Where’s my chocolate sprinkles, you cunt?

 

The trains are running late

Because the guards fucked off,

Worried about robots and technology.

I’m jealous of the Arthur Scargill-twats,

Wishing I could do the same.

 

Industrial action,

Making me late for the job I hate.

 

Feeling angry, on edge.

Always annoyed at someone, something.

It could be delayed trains, tardy mochas,

An advert for fucking takeaways,

Or another passive aggressive email

From that two-faced cunt who works in marketing.

 

Don’t react to the first emotion.

 

The Counsellor suggested I try yoga, mindfulness.

It wound me up. Gave me the arse. 

“So what’s the fucking point of paying for counselling, then?”

 

All you passengers –

Keep your distance.

Be warned. Be aware –

This Semtex heart is ready to go boom.

I’m a ticking bomb.

Better go find yourselves

Another seat or,

Better still, a carriage.

 

My ex-wife said

I had a filthy temper.

She said I was always shouting.

Said I was an alcoholic.

Said I was a liar and a cheat.  

Said I lacked ambition.

Said I had bought

An asbestos wedding ring.

Said she would never be charmed

By a bouquet of dead flowers.

 

Somehow, I bagged a seat

On the train.

The girl opposite doesn’t heed

My homicidal stare.

She’s talking on her phone,

Fighting back the tears about her manager and HR.

They’re all a bunch of wankers,

Although she doesn’t use those words.

She talks posh, articulating reasons

But I know exactly what she means and

It’s making me angry for her.

I feel her language.

See it in her eyes.

We’re one and the same.

She’s welling up.

And I think about giving her one of the tissues in my bag.

Tissues in my bag.

Tissues in my bag.

Do I? Don’t I?

Three fucking stations go by,

Thinking about these tissues in my bag.

She gets off at Vauxhall and I feel like an idiot.

 

When did I become afraid of kindness?

 

Mixed up inside.

Anger one minute.

Compassion the next.

 

Should’ve given her a tissue.

Could’ve stayed at home.

Called my boy.

(Would he even take the call?)

 

Let’s pull a sickie.

Say fuck it.

Bring on the duvet day.

Go on strike.

Say Namaste.  

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Should’ve. Could’ve.

Count to ten.

 

“It’s the trains, they made me late,” I say,

Entering this fucking place

I hate, I hate,

I hate what it turns me into.

 

And what have I become?

And where did I go wrong?  

 

Smile.

Breathe, you twat.

Remember what the Counsellor said.

Don’t react. Try yoga.

Cherish the moment.

I do, I do, don’t you worry:

I cherish the moments of getting

Fucking leathered on my Jack Jones

From Friday night to Sunday morning.

 

And where did I go wrong?

 

I sit at my desk and type in

My boy’s name as a password,

Wiping my runny nose

With a mocha-stained serviette.

 

The Marketing Manager walks over.

“Did you see my email?” he says, smiling.

 

And how should I reply?

 

One day,

One day,

I’ll explode

And blow you all

To kingdom come.

 

And am I too far gone to change?

 

In the meantime,

We’ll politely discuss

That pointless report

You want me to run.

 

And who am I even supposed to be?

 

Namaste, you bunch of…