As the day progresses into evening,
into night, he sits and waits for the
unwelcome trumpetless gurgle; that
deluge of life essence sprayed after
the burble, the crackling; the teeth
and tongue morphing life into blobs
spotting the basin, bath and surrounds,
shades of crimson; it doesn’t come,
not like that, not this time; only dead
corpuscles embedded in phlegm and
mucous circling into the plug hole.

In bed on his side will it come, will it
come soon, certainly? Grace giving sleep
overwhelms cognisance into restless rem
of travelling, wading over people in queues
their luggage in rows with loaves of bread
stacked against old fashioned suitcases.
Into lifts, staircases and buses finding the
right stop; his perfectly blocked in squares
beige shoulder hugging jacket carelessly
strewn on the floor, mutter, mutter, who cares
about a thing, about a bloody useless jacket?

The civil twilit ceiling refracts the light against
the walls; the rumbling landfill conveyance
unleashes its banshees, forces his eyes open,
not a minute more; the door unlocks, the day
is here stalling, stalking, wading waiting
What will it bring?



This post was written by Frederik van Zyl

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Photo: “Shadows in the back room”by arellis49 is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0