It’s you and the view of the lamp posts, the pressed pavements and windows,
clamped cars and drains that have stopped swallowing city sewage.
It’s you in the toilet taking decadent minutes to stare at soap in the cupboard
of the mirror—you think of what you’re yet to examine in your bathroom.
In the deserted kitchen tuts of toast swaddle your socks forming
the crunch of the morning while there are tasks to be done,
but not yet, because, well.. well what? Those who are well, who lack duty,
sit at their desks musing about the loss of summer, the solidity of the past.
It’s 8pm on Thursday and you’re clapping, banging saucepans with neighbours
you barely know, making noise for a health service that cannot stop to listen.
What would happen if I smashed a plate or shaved my head or ate a pen?
Tonight cutting a fringe feel will like committing arson, “something” a little chaotic.
It’s you in your bed with the five minutes of headlines you prescribe yourself—
too much and you self diagnose, too little and you start constructing a future.
Beatrice Bacon (L3)