Josh Ekroy: COMMENDED At the end of the day

At the end of the day I’ll go with the Japanese.
I queue for my white candle in its holder.
Or I think of the oven pilot light burning like a baby’s erection.

At the end of the day I scorch the carpet with my toes.
I nibble around the edges of the Liverpool match.

At the end of the day I know I should really.
I can’t be bothered to argue with the vulture.
I know what I should have said to the Newsagent.
I examine my skin for signs of transcendence and acne.

At the end of the day I am speeding past the turn off to
   Shugborough.
The ringing has to stop and then the silence alarms me.
Forgiveness is possible and impossible.

At the end of the day we are all dead.
I’m in my father’s worn out dressing gown waiting to have my
   teeth inspected.
I look in the frig and see nothing but pickled gherkins like little
   green turds.
I enter the hanging gardens of Norwood.

At the end of the day I lie on my bed of calculators.
I imagine the wife of the boss massaging his neck. He ignores
   her.
Tippex begins to do its work efficiently at last.
My mother walks backwards out of the boot-room holding a
   bent spoon.

At the end of the day I zap the incoming space ships.
I no longer hear the sizzling of dying flies.
I wonder how the sun is getting on in its soap opera.
I phone the The Helpline in order to hear my own voice.

At the end of the day I am ready at last for some gnocchi and
   anguish.
The cat is just getting up and stretching itself in intellectual
   enquiry.
Only the sheepdog is humble. There it is, setting an example.