Poem: 'The 13th'

 by Amazing Izekor

The 13th

Seven…double-o, Oh, I’m late.

 

A cold shower, at most lukewarm, spits, pricking, piercing

Clothes appear to be no-wear. Yesterday’s clothes will do.

Try as I might, the zip won’t budge. Testing my patience.

Full marks; the zip’s broken. A close second: these stubborn mystery stains

 

Forget the clothes. Do your hair.

The unruly curls don’t take commands.

Gel down, I say. They ping up.

 

Bloodshot eyes, streams of tears,

A million attempts spent

Trying

To

Get

These

Wretched

Lenses

In.

Forget it. Where’s my phone?

 

My beacon of hope perched on the reclining sofa.

My joy, my comforter, my-

Nothing comforting about seven percent

I know I put the charger in. I’m sure of it.

Life’s a saboteur. Low life fiddling with the toaster knob

So, my toast is now burnt. Burnt to a crisp. Reduced to ashes.

 

Can’t go wrong with a cup of tea.

Wrong! The buzzer’s gone off and so has the milk.

Its repulsive, foul odour crumples my face

Like the paper, I’m scrunching in my balled fist. Tight.

Life sure has a nose for trouble.

 

The keys are playing hide-and-seek.

The bin men are playing drive-off-and-ignore-the-girl-who-took-out-the-bins-late.

I’m not so familiar with that one.

The bus driver seems familiar with it though.

He knows a variation: drive-off-and-ignore-the-girl-who-got-to-the-stop-late.

Fine. I’ll walk.

 

Beating rain and cackling winds torment my travel,

Setting traps along the way. I dodge all but one.

My foot plunges into a puddle.

Great. My socks will be wet all day.

 

I decide to treat myself to store-bought breakfast: a consolation prize.

Long queue. All right, I’ll wait.

Card declined. Okay, I’ve got my wallet.

Forgotten wallet.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

Oh, thank goodness, I’ve arrived.

The thoughtless arm stretches out to push

A door clearly marked PULL

Oh, so you want to get smart with me.

Yanked back with so much might,

The handle slams my hand against the wall

Painfully deserved. Deservedly painful.

 

In the waiting room, without my phone

The oyster white walls with signal grey stripes

Trump the works of Picasso, Van Gogh.

I admire it whilst twiddling my thumbs, waiting

Ever. So. Patiently.

 

Oh no. Don’t come over here.

A cheery old man sits beside me despite

The entire room being

Completely. Empty.

Unaware of my resentful glare, he hums a catchy tune.

That’ll be stuck in my head all day.

 

Thirty minutes go by,

Wondering why my name has yet to be called

The receptionist ought to know why.

In a monotonous, soul-crushing voice she says:

“Your appointment is on the 31^st of January.”

Today is the 13^th.