While I was younger I worked in a few different jobs but by far the most mind-numbing was the time that I had to peel eggs. I was taught by a pro in the delicate art of single handle peeling, a skill that will stay with me until my dying days.
Shadowing a slick rubber-gloved John Wayne
Boasting four years in his brilliant-whites,
Casually slipping me his skills,
Like some under the table card play.
“Keeping the rhythm, ignoring the blues!”
Requirements of an all-in-one toxic suit wrapper.
Standing in hand-me-down wellies, two sizes to big
I numbly soak up the skills.
His hands moving, practiced fluid perfection,
Unholstering freshly boiling shell-lets from the convoy,
Wiping off puffy-white cravats,
A shell steaming from each hand.
Popping out the mini moons
Their cores still molten,
Re-holstering in double barrelled buckets.
“First you crack, then you squeeze.”
Shocking me with his rubber-finger. “Not to much mind!”
“To tight you’ll be popping yellow brick yokes!”
Trapped in the past while the present goes about its business. Sometimes the past is so painful that the present can not penetrate far enough into the mind the drag you into the present day.
A suppressed tear finally buckets,
its owner uninterestedly views some nameless magazine,
inwardly watching the pre-recorded picture show,
the latest few hours of his existence.
Blurred picturesque landscapes lull by
unnoticed by the weeper and the suited alike.
The suited spluttering articulate nonsense down a mobile
too a hundred featureless faces,
watching the tear fall hungrily.