He conceded
that he’d failed at adulting
though he had no debt,
no criminal record,
and no addictions
other than snack cakes,
insipid sitcoms
and a Rubik’s cube
he still hadn’t resolved.
Five weeks from his fiftieth birthday,
he still slept in the same twin bed
that had sheltered his itchy, sweating limbs
after he’d contracted chicken pox
at New Year’s 1984.
He clung to his octogenarian progenitors
for fish fingers, fresh fluffy laundry and
chauffeuring-on-demand,
too anxious for a driving license
and too cloudy-headed for a job since
his diligent daydreaming had got him
sacked from shelf-reading
at the community library.
And when he craved companionship,
he copied the mobile numbers
of grinning realtors advertised
on weather-beaten bus-stops
and typed “howdy, buddy”
under an invented nom de texto
and an imaginary reason
just to receive a response.
∞
Adrian Slonaker works as a copywriter and copy editor in Urbandale, Iowa. USA. Adrian’s work has appeared in The Bohemyth, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Pangolin Review, Five on the Fifth, Picaroon Poetry, and others.
