Written at Janet Jackson's Poetry Workshop

The TV starts to blur as my brain fizzes
with the bleak thoughts of a quiet Saturday night.
Tipped sideways on the couch with a downturn mouth,
I wish I’d gone out.
Over the soft sounds of Star Wars,
the Chinese New Year roars from my housemate’s room.
Deep in my personal gloom, I swallow the bitter taste
of acrimony. Because he’s really alright,
and he sat up all night with us on our New Year’s Eve.
I quickly shovel biscuits into my face
to stifle the growth of protests in my throat,
and reflect that Empire really is the best.