Poetry

Feigned Ignorance, test one.

Look away.

Our subject isn’t cool, isn’t warm, isn’t quiet, isn’t loud.

She is simply a passenger

journeying inside a tube filled with bubbles,

and hers is burst suddenly, tearing her from the pages of the novel clutched in her hands

to the attention of the male specimen, tipsy as a timer,

demanding her number.

As if she is a prized doll for collectors.

Politely, she refuses.

 

The male specimen does not like this. He accuses her of prudishness.

As if that’s his business.

None of the other bubbles burst while this is going on.

They are content, floating away; raised voices bounce off them,

pleading looks erased by blank stares.

 

Her stop is close, the tube is slowing.

Our subject can get away this time.

Next time, let’s take away her escape route and see what happens.

I’d like to think that all the bubbles would burst then,

but my colleagues say the probability is low.

We’re not placing bets.

Poetry

Underground on tip-toe

What do you make of time?

Catching teeth at the edge –

a half-chewed sandwich

being forced down

as feet are charged

to skip across the tops

of moulded caves.

Down into the caverns

full of tubes that threaten

to shave the skin

from your nose.

And for what?

Worn out shoes and holes

covered in stripy threads,

and a headache at one

in the afternoon.