a qualm in the lyf

The mundane lyf of _ _ boasted no bonuses, bar the company car and the company mobile. Not having learnt to drive, and with fingers far too wonky for the fine details of the phone keypad, neither bought any use.
All there was, was the disinfected squalor of mothballed routine and the clicking of keyboards, y, n, enter, enter.
It played a merry little, musty little tune, fuelled by caffeinated pseudo-zest. While the homeless veiled theres in hessian, _ _ decided to don his discomfort. He wore it smartly, detachedly, non-chalontly, in the form of a suit and tie.

The chargreyed pigeons he had to pass through during his smog rise journey to the smokestack where he worked, pecked all the way merrily through, his half hearted attempts to thwack them with his rolled up financial review.
And, if the crossing was red he wouldn’t budge. Respectful to the light ordering him to stay safe. He stood stoic, a beacon of conservatism in the gutter while the others jaywalked.

And the sweet and lo that gave him heart palpitations.
In the loveless prison he had learnt to call a home.

There goes my bayybeeee.........

:b