the lopsided alarm clock
Fed up shuffles at nine thirty-five
take us up heaps of streets that twist our legs,
leading us down rising lanes
on brittle ankles.
My breath is placed there, on slopes
that drain my morning laugh,
it sinks in cracks
of worn cement
and trampled in hearts.
It's too low
for palms to touch right now,
my lungs roam, only half-free,
they plod behind my boots
while upstairs a buzz, much like the commotion
made in playgrounds,
makes my pace increase. Or try at least,
with the weight of bodies me holding back,
a wall of stone on string
attached to my ribs.
Nobody is home when I reach reception,
just a sign to say 'please wait'
and the sound of impatience is spat
into once clean air. Empty room with walls so bare
and limbs that ache. I think I am a hospital patient
waking up from theatre
with eye lashes grouped together
begging for more rest.
vaccinations left a bruise or two
and it's hard to open these heavy doors,
they are everywhere.