Poet Authority Poem Terminal

Miriam chuckled at the photograph.

There was a pause.

To impress a girl.

Who he hoped,

Was into knights.

Additionally he obtained

A roll of foil from Sainsbury's.

To construct additional adornments.

Such as a helmet.

And to wrap up his sandwiches.

Thought Grubbles.

While filling out his dating profile.

Shared again,

Because no one can afford anything these days. 

It turns out her new housemates are astoundingly dull.

Everyone knew what they were doing.

Everything was organised.

And no food ever disappeared in unexplained circumstances. 

One night things got so tedious she pretended to go to bed early. 

Crept into the kitchen, 

And turned the fridge off.

She could not wait for tomorrow morning.

Potto went on holiday.

He forgot to hydrate. 

His urine became orange.

Like the setting sun.

Which reminded him of the aforementioned.

And he smiled a little.

Loaded up WhatsApp. 

'I'm afraid I'm going to have to pull out of this charity walk, lads'

He sent, along with pictorial evidence. 

Then he put away his toolbox 

And launched Skyrim.

'But we're out of toilet paper, Eric'

'Bud, there's some paper in the printer.'

'Can't we just go today?'

'Tuesday's shopping day.'

Joined a sea gym to bulk up.

Really increase the levels of intimidation he could achieve.

Then he swam around boats,

With his muscular fin protruding from the water,

Cutting huge waves in the ocean.

And watched as the little sailor men quivered.

Got divorced again.

Which as far as Peter could tell,

Happened with the frequency of a Thursday.

But somehow this qualified as breaking news.

And Thursdays didn't.

He wasn't used to it.

Found the ordeal overwhelming.

He decided to stop doing that and went back to one of his blank looks.

That's more like it,

He didn't think.

Entre checked his emails.

Rather confusingly,

The inbox contained a document declaring his parcel could not be delivered.

It continued.

Because he was not at home.

He looked out the window he had been perched next to all day.

Checked the number on the front door.

He was quite perplexed by this turn of events.

Joining in with the fundraising festivities,

A doctor got his face painted.

His patients didn't care to hear the excuse.

The dopey looking bear plastered over his empathetic expression wasn't helping to take the edge off.

Especially for the ones being told about their terminal illnesses.

The room filled with nine other adults.

With their big important discussions.

And there he was.

Hopelessly nodding along.

Clueless.

There was nothing else for it.

Leaned forward and tried to imagine athletes filling the black void.

It was hopeless.

He started texting friends.

Asking if any of them would be up for hurdling some reasonably high sticks.

Or jumping in puddles without making too much of a splash.

Praying David Dickinson,

Or whoever it was hosting Bargain Hunt these days,

Would throw to an iconic image of the Olympic rings,

The sights of Paris,

And some guy running a bit faster than the norm.

He couldn't help but wonder what Michael Johnson and Hazel Irvine would think of the aging ceramics some team had scooped up.

She suggested touch typing ought to be included in future games.

Included pictures of her athletic digits.

And a short video slathering her way across a Logitech MX Keys S,

Knocking out astounding WPMs.

Over she went.

Landing like a sack of potatoes.

Everyone cheered.

Her fists thrust into the air.

This was the dream!

It was great for his line of work.

Because of all of the new sights and such.

The glorious sand sculptures of Depdtuet.

Floating in the flaky purple skies of, well, still Depdtuet.

Filled with sort of cloudy things, but sharper, and green.

And he observed the people,

To whom these sights were nothing new.

They looked a lot like humans.

Except they were green,

And liked to be called Depdtuetions.