Tristan Robert Lange

Pocket Publish

I once was set late for my job,

Sitting away from the door’s knob.

The door ajar, you see,

I there stated my plea,

“Hon, I’ve got an explosive prob!”

But little did I therein know

That my phone’s assistant would glow

And begin to record

An unwholesome accord,

Without a chance to stop the flow.

See, I was running late again,

Trying to get to work and then

Do the job—I get paid—

Yet, this porcelain grade

Was my one and only “Amen!”

Finally, when I stood up straight,

To flush the refuse to its fate,

I heard that chime of fear.

There, my horror was near—

A colleague texted back, “Gross, mate!”

© 2024 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.