He's not you
None of them are
The little Martian snorts as he leans over the crowded metro bench to peer into my notes app
"Who you writing mopey poetry about today?"
"Why do you say it like that?"
"You're totally trivializing it!"
"No no I don't mean to be a dick about your little poem gig"
"I didn't know little green Martians could be so patronizing"
"Yikes. thats a bit of a generalisation."
"I'm sorry. Blame it on Monday"
"Don't worry, I blame everything on Monday" he mutters.
"What I meant was ...you're trivializing the people I write about... the people I write for," I add with a pause for dramatic effect.
"But that's because it's someone new every week" the little martian rolls his eyes. He has the remarkable ability to sprout 4 new sets of eyes when he wants to roll them. Sass is the foundation of his species evolutionary process he once told me .
"Nope. Not this one. This one's the original. " I explain emphatically.
"The original what?"
"The original poetry fodder" I mutter. I am almost completely embarrassed, but not quite. This is the kind of embarrassment that you only truly wear once the aforementioned embarrassing words are out of your mouth and your audience has absorbed them completely. It is not the kind of embarrassment that has the patience to filter itself.
The Martian doesn't wait before pouncing on me in a fit of giggles.
"Ha! And you say I'm trivialising them. You've reduced them to fodder!"
"Fodders the least my tired heart could reduce them to"
"Don't be dramatic." he rolls his eyes. All 6 of them twisting and turning like orbs on crack.
I wait for him to cool the sass.
"I'm not. It's just Monday!" I say, finally, with a philosophical air.
The little Martian nods solemnly, like a prophetic little bobblehead. Making perfect sense of my nonsense.
"It is. It is Monday. "
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