old-fashioned

A man is screeching like an old radio,

and I don’t know what I can do.

He starts in the morning;

when the birds’ chirps cease,

he’s waking up with a loud yawn,

then spends the longest time in the bathroom.

And it won't be long before I'm heard of

his booming voice voraciously swallowing the air

with its hollow sound on the phone,

and that's even before he's had his first coffee,

smelling in the house like scorched seafood.

The sun hasn't even risen,

and he's already launched his dreadful tweet.

The tractor rumbles,

he's on the phone with clients,

during call centre operating hours.

Yet, he claims his job title is “architect”.

“An architect of dreams,”

that's what comes to mind

as he desperately tries to sell

an internet connection by any means necessary.

He's from another country,

but speaks a common language,

beating around the bush with me,

assuming I'm an idiot who trusts

vague individuals,

making a fool of me

shamelessly, without a doubt…

…Pink double sofa, no soda…

…Later that day,

he’s opening his big mouth again,

acting the ladies' man,

entertaining the whole town.

He makes my hair stand on end,

but all I can do

is to describe him from my point of view

until he falls asleep

and starts loudly dreaming,

wheezing like an old-fashioned train.

To hell with him!