Working Stiff

a working stiff Woke, the bedroom was cold under the duvet snugness I burrowed deeper, enjoying the freedom of sleeping late. Life was hard, getting up at five and preparing breakfasts for grumpy seamen, smoking the first cigarette of the day. The breaking of the fast was endlessly tedious, something with eggs and fatty meat. Sometimes when there was a gap between feeding times, I tried to write; my hands stank of chip fat. On hundreds of pages, "I'm alive, I'm a life". I was a robot; my body is going through a motion. When peeling potatoes, I was suddenly awake fake brown gravy and spuds; there were no robots The bed is warm; nothing can touch me now, touch me now! ! ! !