13 June 2017

A poem



She.

She gets out of bed when the alarm sounds
And shivers at the cold
One light on to pierce the dark, ten pages of the book she is reading, tea sipped slowly from a chipped mug

She rides the bus to work crushed against a scented woman or wedged beneath a suited armpit
And looks for him - ink black hair and ochre skin - at stop 33
Every day he is there

She works her way through the tasks for the day
And ticks them off her list one by one,
speaking only when she is spoken to
Each word is an effort

She makes her dinner with the news on
And tells herself it's the onion, not the misery that always makes her cry
Carrots aren't emotional

She pulls the covers up to her chin
And breathes deep through her belly, the way doctor told her to
Sometimes it lulls her to sleep

She is OK
And she is not.