Futile Poem

When I lived alone everything was futile.
Trying to get up from my futon was futile.
I kept a tall banana plant and a small reptile,
but the climate was temperate not tropical
so trying to grow fruit was fruitless, futile.
The futility of filling the can and watering.

There were loud birthdays above and below.
People moved in, moved out, so getting to know
the neighbours was futile. A washing machine
above was always on spin, went fut, fut, fut, fut…
Shouting was my missile. Soon my vocal cords
were futile. I’d hold out for silence, futilely.

The view opposite wasn’t completely futile.
The red pantiles on the rooftops looked intact,
like in a bad storm they’d keep the rain off,
but the long summer days were often grey
so the skylights were futile because the sky
was dull, devoid of sun, the daylight futile.

My utility bills were futility bills, heftily futile.
Gassing about not affording gas would be futile.
The damp wasn’t futile though, it was furtive
and had growth spurts, grew bigger than me.
The red armchair I’d sit in had a high back.
It was comfortable but its arms were futile.