I’m not unhappy. No, I don’t want to kill myself.
I actually have some sympathy for this life of mine
spent on buses
back and forth.
I enjoy my holidays
in front of the television.
I love those women in full flow,
in some live banal chat show.
I like those moustachioed men and their golden bracelets.
I believe in the miracles of Fatima
and in dry breaded cod.
I like all those people.
I want to be one of them.
No, I don’t stash away any hidden meaning.
All these words can in fact be found
in every single Hello magazine.
Their order sometimes changes.
I don’t want any analysis of my poem.
Please, don’t write theses.
This is only some knitting
forgotten on top of the fridge.
Thank you for having come to kiss my ring.
Thank you for seeking the race’s everlastingness.
But poetry, mes chers, isn’t salvation, or glitter, it’s a harness.