Fun is a function I’m an F5 short of

I’m too loyal to laziness,
pyjamaed most of the time more or less,
lost in not thought but in something worse: ponderment.
And I’m still wondering why I never walked to the coast and said sorry,
cherry picked excuses from the surf
and knitted them there, right then, with a two by four into an apology,
hung it up to wet in the sea mist,
welcome home, this is it.

     You see ‘em all along this stretch,
     all half deaf and muttering to one another.
     They tie the knotted wrack around their wrists and wander in and never swim back.
     Maureen at number four says some-other ones try saving 'em by pulling them from the shore,
     but they get dragged in like leads after dogs
     on their knees,
     fumes through draughts upon a whipped up Chicago breeze
     on ice,
     slice of lemon, served sunny side sweet and just how they pictured it,
     a massacre on the beach.

One day your scales’ll break and you’ll see a naked wrist and wonder where your watch went.