Ode to the Guy who Burst my Bubble

You can’t complain

if some people just don’t get it,

don’t understand that

everyone has an aura,

a wavelength,

a bubble,

that you shouldn’t interfere with.

And this one’s

tapping,

like one possessed,

at his laptop,

especially loves that

enter button,

gives it one big slap

every few seconds,

and he’s got his own syncopated

rhythm going,

that’s dancing up and down

my spine.

And now he’s on the phone,

half a meter from me,

jacking off his tongue,

and now he’s slurping his coffee

from a trough

and he’s tapping that rhythm

on my noggin.

He’s sniffing some

great glob of snot

back up into his skull.

I’ve endured too long,

the back of my eyes

shatter,

and I’m standing up,

I’ve got him by his

coffee-stained collar,

and I’m shoving him

and his creaky chair backwards

through the automatic door;

that gob-smacked, inhale of breath,

best sound he made

since he got here.

I’m looking out the window,

day-dreaming,

playing with my straw,

one jittery eye.

I’ve been on the same page

of my book

for the past thirty minutes,

and he’s happily

clicking away

on his sticky little keypad.

You can’t complain

if some people just don’t get it. 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

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