Best not to think about it


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.


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