Every morning the same cereal
at the same time with the same tea
in the same mug waiting in the same place
I always leave it each night.
It's a comfort.
Each day the same work routine,
filing out the same paper at the same time
each delivery late by the same margin
with the same faces for banter.
It's a comfort.
The same talk all the time,
small talk and complaint around and around
flossing through the ears with smiles,
the strict genre of polite society.
It's a comfort.
The same shows on repeat every day
supplemented with video games and DVDs,
completed over and over
until I can recite them backwards in Pig Latin.
It's a comfort.
The same news stories every day
always war, illness, rent rises
and the wealthy breaking ahead
while the poorest go unfed.
It's why I need the comfort.
Every day solitude, silence,
the same slurry of gaunt faces,
shouting, whining, threats coming at me
for the same meagre reward each month, without thanks.
I need some other comfort.