So there we have it.
With string beans and string dreams
I am touching my hair
Waiting for you
And a piece of toast.

The toaster belonged to the other people
With elusive identities and close acquaintances
(People to hug at night, to bake a casserole with)
You never know if they are not at home
Or just pressed against their pillows
Listening to the trombone next door
And waiting for me to get out of the kitchen.

So I am as quick as I can
Hands over the toaster steam
Don’t get distracted, don’t remember previous slices of bread
Previous hands and eyelashes
That have fallen down into the network of wires
Sitting next to a group of crumbs
And discussing the political climate
Of the one bedroom flat.

It’s unnatural and cruel, a perfect ridicule
Of everything that’s right.

Spat out of bed, Labrador limbs
And a heart to match- awkward and angled
Stardust spangled
With all the words of a newborn
But no strange greetings.

It’s silent and still dark, trees in grey bark
Gowns.

They are cold against my hands
As I caress them and wait for the 373

It’s peculiar to see, the strangers and me
Our fumbling of cards and change
Some weird ritual, and yet
United and helpful
(Her arm on mine as the bus lurches).

It’s absurd and a shame, this strange little game
That comes to an end
Just as our eyes loosen themselves of sleep
Just as the sun raises an arm in salute
Of us little men.

And suddenly it’s clear.

I am crying with the man whose hips take up the whole seat.
Everyone is avoiding his eyes, stepping wide
Trying to hide
From the noises he is making in his sleep
(Wild dreams of skin and toast).

The business man
Don’t understand.
His wife just swept her hand through her hair
Across to the other side of the bed
And found it cold.

Sedimental sentiments
Are sinking through my skin
Past the realm of compliments
And things to put them in

The tupperware is cracked, you see
It's sticky garlic-plastic
Has refused to hold another phrase
Of sickly staunch sarcastic