Diaries of a Time-Waster (Poetry)

Careless pages — creased — a little torn
in places — as though caught by a rough thumb —
and here and there lines crossed through insistently
as though a censor made an urgent edit —
correcting days — removing doubtful content —
but what could shock the mind who’d written it? —
what could possibly offend the one recording from first hand
these collected non-events of frittered time?

So much repetition — so much space
to jam-pack with life’s monotonies — as though
the aim was simply no more than that — to let
the eager minutes go free to chase themselves
around the smug-faced clock — and he — the waster
glued to habit — left to tick the runners off and watch
time pass — noting more or less the same thing on every page —
his diaries packed and bulging with a life of empty words
spilling long ink trails — rambling past obliterated signposts —
those few oddly telling thoughts confided — then
feared too near the truth — scratched out again —
fleeting insights that might give away regret.