I decide to be better than you.
It doesn’t take long because you aren’t much good:
you don’t seem to care.

I become a sweeter talker,
more words per minute, a greater variety.
They come out naturally longer, now.

And I’m a superior walker, i.e. I never don’t have
some part of either foot in contact with the tarmac
at any one time. I am covered

with more follicles per square centimetre. My job
pays significantly more per hour
(I don’t think about it).
You don’t care my wife is fuller than yours;

my one son, more focused than your two
vague daughters – when did you last see them?
Look at my calf muscles; the contents of shopping basket;

your face in my alloys: you don’t care.
I sit outside my bigger house and know
the majority of more obvious constellations,

the Latin name for a moose, how valves really are
and what transistors do. You sleep soundly; OK.
But I know why.