There is that quiet when I am awake
and the house is sleeping.
A strange pause before the day
opens its doors to lost shoes
and unwanted socks. Like holding
my breath. Like drowning.
It’s not knowing how high
I can count that chokes.
When I am running
from pillar to post,
bus to train,
I rarely think what
my insides are doing.
But sometimes my own reflection
In a window when there is a delay,
muffled tannoy announcements,
suspended journeys,
gives me vertigo,
as if I know I’ll be asked to jump.
