Nothin' But Air

 

Nothin' But Air

 

You would think she might have

run out of air, grasped the fact

that some of us don’t care –

have earned a holiday, a break,

but, no – look at your messages

and there’s more, for fuck’s sake.

Who can it be now, men at work?

No – some penny ante award,

a grubby, grasping exam board

issuing certificates willy-nilly,

desperate last gasps for publicity -

even cardboard’s worth more

than anything it gives credit for,

yet she feels the inner need

to oxygenate, satisfy greed –

or perhaps draw attention from

an abject failure to perform.

There’s the usual murder of crows

in delightful chorus, composed

of inane self-laudatory plaudits,

you’re thinking ‘bag of shite,’

they’re waking you up at night;

you wish you had the courage

to leave this group; its sludge,

but, shrug instead, bake bread.

As yeast ferments, it fills your head

with nothing but air, crusts form

over crumbled textures as warm

thermals rise from within the stove –

serenity drifts as dough proves.