Poet Authority Poem Terminal

'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.

He'd forgotten he didn't own any fields or anything like that.

So his rhino had to move in to his flat.

Living with a rhino was troublesome.

It did things like obstruct the TV.

Which Adam just had to let happen.

Because it was a rhino,

And rhinos are scary.

Also its tremendous horn kept knocking things over.

And putting holes in doors.

Alfred argued with Mildred.

'You can't even make it across the living room in 10 seconds you daft old sod'

Rage washed over Alfred.

He tried to spring off the couch.

Began to wonder if Mildred might have a point.

Willow glued together a deck of cards.

He offered the deck to people.

Requested they shuffle it.

Laughed at the outcome.

Slim couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'Five?!'

He thought about the number for a while.

'Five?'

It started sounding reasonable.

'Five it is'

He said, and got on with it.