There is a smudge on my computer screen I try to clean it with spit,
but no. Perhaps it is finger mark left behind by those strange people
who sit in back of the computer repair shop? Their diet is cola and
chocolate, yet they are thin, bald and so weedy looking I have must
whisper to them or they will shrink away. They sulk too if I disagree
with their findings it will take weeks before I get my computer back.
When the owner shuts shop they climb into toolboxes, the ones with
the helpful drawing of a screwdriver. Maybe the smudge is a camera
eye, they sit in there and watch me. When I have drink tonight I’ll
pour it in my bedroom, then go into the bathroom, smoke a cigarette.
Buy a can of cola and a bar of chocolate, eat and drink in front
of the screen. And they will say: “Look, he is one of us.”