I wonder if the boring people
with that empty, airy chuckle
talking about how bad the rain is
and how ill prepared we always are,
know how boring they are.
Maybe they’ve made up a game
called Boredom to fight their own.
‘Isn’t it cold? How wet for June.’
They revel in how bored you are,
how bored you realise you are
and how bored you know you look
but how you’re too bored to hide it.
‘In time for the weekend. Typical.’
The rescue line covers up their joy
looking into your deep bored eyes
as you sit half nodding, half asleep
apologising you have to send a text
but really you’re boringly writing
a boring poem about their boredom
or perhaps your own.