The Meter Maid

This is the day of the meter maid
Onward you endure, onward underpaid
What you do is completely thankless
No child aspires to clean a public street mess
Not to mention your boss nor the public gives a piss
About you
Onward you endure everyday, with a neon yellow vest
To give high visibility, to a life so blue

“I’ve already started writing the ticket.”
You mumble with a sigh
And prepare yourself for the screaming, swearing, and death threats
Your daily replies
You take it all in
You don’t power trip
You politely say,
“I’m sorry sir.”
And wipe your face of all the spit

You take it all in stride
But you kind of hate your life
You have no room for pride
You need to feed your children
You do it for your wife
So you sleep, rise, and face the day again
Onward you endure, onward underpaid
The simple life of a humble meter maid

The Life of An Adult-Baby Daddy

I took the last drag of my cigarette and slowly exhaled the cancerous, delicious tar. The poisonous mist danced gracefully away and disappeared into the hot summer air. My eyes gazed up towards the streetlights and stars wistfully. I wanted to light another one to prolong the peace of the summer night and the beautiful sky. I knew deep down that I had to go back inside.

That I had to go back inside to her.

I creaked the door and entered my house slowly, with the caution of an experienced burglar. I slunk over to fridge to grab a Miller High Life and plopped down on the couch to crack it open, pulling the tab ever-so-delicately as to make as little noise as possible. A pop and a small hiss escaped the cylinder. After the break in the failed to alert any attention, I turned on the hockey game and watched mindlessly. It’s all I wanted to do after my 10-hour shift. I needed this. Maybe tonight I could finally get some normality. That’s when I heard bare feet pattering towards me on the hardwood floor.

“Honey, we need to talk.”

Maybe not.

“Okay, what is it?” I asked.

I didn’t need to ask, I knew exactly what was coming. I knew I had to choose my words carefully. I knew that my life will never know peace.

“I’ve had a rough day today, and my anxiety is really bad. I’m going to revert tonight. Once it happens I’ll need a diapy change.”

The word “diapy” pierced the core of my soul.

“Alright, well, look, this is a playoff game. The Jets haven’t been this close to the Cup in a long time and there’s only 10 minutes left in the third period. Just let me watch it and-”

“No!” She shrieked. “Baby need diapy change and stowy-time now!”

I sighed deeply, but not loud enough for her to hear, and turned off the TV. I held her hand and walked her to our bedroom. I sleep in a bedroom with over 200 stuffed animals.

As I placed a pacifier into an adult woman’s mouth I thought back to when Melissa and I had first met at a La Dispute show in 2015. We hung out that night after the show and partied until dawn. She even told me she was into some weird roleplaying stuff when we had breakfast together the following morning. I just assumed that she meant she liked to pretend she was a school teacher, or a cop or something during sex. I never imagined it would be anything like this. She was cute, fun, and seemingly cool when I met her. I was a young, desperate fool who just had to have a girlfriend. I was too desperate and too impatient. Now here I am, reading “Green Eggs and Ham” to a 22-year-old with a septum piercing, a pacifier, and sparrow tattoos.


My life is a cruel joke. I drive to work and back every day in complete silence. No radio, no podcasts. Nothing. I do it because it’s the only solitude I get in a day and I cherish it dearly. My friends belittle me mercilessly, family does not take me seriously. I must adhere to all of her rules and follow Melissa’s vegan diet, I haven’t had friends over for a BBQ or even grilled a steak in years, I’m not even sure I can anymore. I’m not sure I can do any of this anymore.

I snapped out of my cruel past and back into my cruel present. I had to get Melissa ready for her “beddy-time”. I carefully played my part in her routine of singing “Mary Had A Little Lamb” to her, putting on her jammies, and tucking her into her crib. The crib that I had spent my Christmas bonus on last year.

“I wuv you, daddy.” She said in her faux sleepy voice as she nestled her nose into my chest. It’s a good thing I had died inside long ago, or else that would have sent me into the brink of insanity.

“I- I wuv you too.”

I sat back down on the sofa after Melissa’s “beddy-time” was over. I downed my Miller in one thirsty swallow and immediately cracked another. In total tranquillity and darkness, I stayed, staring into the void. The late-night infomercial salesmen were far more comforting than they could ever know. I had thought that I could finally be free for the night. Melissa’s piercing cry molested the moment over the baby monitor. I thought about setting myself free forever. But instead, I finished my beer in one efficient, numb-seeking slurp. It’s time to be “Daddy” again.

My mother always wanted me to have a baby, and now I do. Do not live like me, for I am dead.


The Immigrant Poem

Says the man whose grandfather came to Canada, and was given an English name
Who does not know his original last name
Who does not speak French
And has no desire to learn
Who had no desire to speak it with his father
English is the best language anyway, why should he bother?
It’s all he needs to watch American television
He knows it all about his culture. He loves Bud Light and supports the troops.
Our culture is the best culture,
But he probably couldn’t tell you much
About the Sixties Scoop

Says the woman who goes to church twice per year on Christmas and Easter
Says the woman who worships her reflection
Who never takes time to truly reflect
Who would never take the tired, the poor, the huddled masses
Those people are on their own, I’m not giving them a handout
Handouts include my important time,
That I will not volunteer
But when tragedy strikes far or near
She takes the matter very dear
She knows the cross is hers to bear
And gets on Facebook with a “Thoughts and Prayers”

Says the man, not at all meek.
Even though he came to work hungover
The third time this week
The man who lost that job
Not because of his lacklustre habits, or his love of the wine
He lost that job so that the board of directors
Could protect their bottom line

Says the woman, so full of vitriol
The woman who has not talked to her own son in 10 years
The woman who will not hear a word he has to say
For Jesus despises him, and God’s ears are deaf when he prays
For he made the fatal choice, of living as a gay


The Hunt for Phil Begins

“You know the Council of Nine isn’t going to go for this, right?” Mr. Claus had mumbled with apathetic caution. He drew a hot cherry of his wooden pipe, the rich tobacco adding a fitting haze to his humid, humble Havana office. The sweet stench of heat, wood and rum still overpowered the smoke.

“My balls are already in a vice with them as it is. It doesn’t help that my work overshadows the bosses’ birthday. That puts me on thin ice already, you know. Now you’re here to put this shit on me? I don’t need this.”

I stared through his steel grey eyes. They had a cold quality; as if they had seen countless lifetimes. Maybe they had. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I actually was quite fond of this man, but I was desperate. My despair formed rage and it slammed my fist on the thick wood of his desk. It hurt like a motherfucker.

“Now you listen to me- you fat, sorry excuse for a demigod! I don’t give a hot, sweet fuck with Eleanor goddamn Roosevelt that you got issues with the Council of Nine. We all do- they’re dicks. That does not change the fact that one of your miniature servants is out there, making life Hell for me and all mankind! Will you do nothing? Or fight, like a man!?”

Mr. Claus drew again from his oak pipe. His face was cherry red; the sweat from the heat and the anger now almost a vapour. His eyes pierced my soul, smoke now smouldering from his nose. Despite his anger, he knew that I was right. He sighed remorsefully.

“I created all of the Elves with powerful magic borrowed from the Council. I don’t even fully understand it. Phil is no exception. His lust for power and weaponry grow; malevolence in his tiny black heart. The Council isn’t going to like it, but it is true, my creation and my mistake must be destroyed. It is of the Fallen.”

The silence was deafening. I rose from my leather chair with the pace of a Redwood tree’s growth. I picked up a burlap bag from from his floor and a hammer from his workbench. We gave an unspoken nod of agreement as I walked out into the blistering Caribbean heat. We both knew what must be done.

You can’t ask Snap, Crackle or Pop how damn good I am at my job, because I did it well on them. Oprah Winfrey, your TV career, nor a fake doctorate can save you, I’m comin’ for you Phil. Cash me outside.

The Man Who Could Not See

The man who could not see
He had perfect vision
He lived his life totally blind

The man who could not see
He grumbled at the rain, the snow, and the cold
When the sun came out, and the ice began to flee
The man did not smile, he did not go outdoors
The man complained because the wind was too sturdy

The man who could not see
He wanted a better life
He wanted a better wife
He gaped and gawed at beautiful women all day long
He wanted them to gape and gawk at him
But that foolish man, he could not see
The beauty and value of the woman he went home to every night
The best woman for him in the world
The woman who thought the world of him

The man who could not see
He dreamed of success, power, and fame
He dreamed of the jealousy of his peers
He did not know why his life just stayed the same
But he continued to daydream and cracked another beer

That poor man who could not see
He only looked at what he did not have
He wondered why his life felt empty
While he fixated on the non-existent
He assumed the world desired only the possessions and qualities
In which he did not possess or qualify

The man who could not see
He had perfect vision
He lived his life totally blind


This Is Painful

Impatient hunger pangs strike- it’s the early afternoon.
Another meeting now, they’ve all been different and they’re all the same.

What would the board say? Can you read this month’s sales promotion? Did we file that insurance claim?

Noble words of changing lives and changing the world.
These come from the mouths of those sitting on a floor or in a comfy office chair.


But first, we need to review the protocol that we must follow.
Remember your name-tag and remember your uniform.
Those in navy blue shorts have no place in our black pants norm.

Empty words of emptier actions,
Followed of course by self- congratulations.
Middle-management shout-outs, a place of no doubts.
The inability to see this masturbatory procrastination.


I don’t need a shout out, I NEED TO SHOUT OUT!
Thousands of pounds of pressure constrict my vibrating frame,
like the depths of the Ocean on one of Jacques Cousteau’s vessels.

This was written during one of these meetings.
I have to do something productive.
Leaving and never attending again is becoming more seductive.

But I’m polite- I never take my phone in, otherwise, I would text.
I only survive through daydreams of food, beer, and sex.



Rent music and movies with our streaming
Rent a house and rent the heating
Rent a car, rent the bar

Renting humans cannot be far
It’s already here
You can rent a bodyguard out of fear
Or rent an escort, just hide the shame and tears

Rent a prostitute, pay to unsanctify the beauty of life
Take her to a restaurant, rent a fork and a knife

You own nothing in life but don’t owe anything in life
Pay your taxes and pay your bills, please
You are renting this life, and these are fees
Because you leave them to your children when you pass on the lease