Something or other

Life ponders strangely on
as the patriots gather
to compare tans
and the weight of their Sunday
shopping bags.

I was amidst them for a while;
a sad affair.

I have gone through Puccini,
Mozart, Chopin and Mahler
since then,
and remember, whilst
I'm on a light note
that it's fine to rub your eyes,
scratch your nose
and fondle you balls,
but not after the Scotch Bonnet
has been cut.

I'm not sure this can be described
as the sadness we all know
and love to hear described eloquently.
It is a strangeness
that evokes no emotion
until the timpani strikes.

It is a life without fire.
Nothing more than the click
of the second hand
as the days pass by slowly
and the curry cooks on the stove
waiting for nobody's verdict,
but my own.