Liam Bates

At the end of the month, I turn in

my check sheet: a quantified list of assorted heroics.
The clerk chews a pen as he updates his spreadsheet.

A bushel of rare herbs acquired from a mountaintop.
A missing ring back in the hands of its owner.
A wagon escorted through countryside swarming
with bandits. I typed up the weekly meeting notes, as requested.

I saved the townsfolk from themselves,

by lying several times on behalf of employers.

He tallies it all and deposits the funds in accordance
with work legislation and those few gains
obtained by unions. A portion goes straight out
for rent. Then I spend some on eating.
I’d love to eat fresh but I’m just so tired.

The driver is with me shortly. I take
my pizzas at the door. His fee plus tip
will be spent on him eating.
He’d love to eat fresh but he’s just so tired.

At home, he pours boiling water onto freeze-dried noodles,

up to the pot’s line, a little over. Green pea globes

and chunks of soya swirl, some make it

to the surface of the broth, some drown. Escaping

steam fogs his glasses and the kitchenette window.

Out there now could be something else entirely.

is a poet originally from the Black Country. His poems are in Ambit, Popshot, Prolit, and others. His pamphlet, Working Animals, is available from Broken Sleep Books. His second pamphlet, Monomaniac, is forthcoming in November.