Maybe I’ll Be A Waitress
Listen. I’ve decided to go soft. Maybe I’ll be a waitress, at the bottom of a hot ocean, taking bites out an apple pie. Or I won’t. I’ll stuff an office block in my mouth every morning, light the top. I keep imagining impossible things, the way wood hopes it won’t grow. I’ve walked past seventeen crying people & done nothing. Scent of burnt timber at the junction of Frith & Old Compton, currying favour with the clouds. So I’d rather be numb than godly – so what – let me commit my offence. Let me slope around this city’s body like a coagulant, a cut line. I’ll drink beer. Enjoy the company of other men. When I’m done, I’ll come back to this yew, press my head into the bark so I become a branch. Maybe I’ll learn the difference between a return and a retreat, the space between them – a warm stream where I bring horses, only to be surprised when they actually drink.
Alex Marlow is a poet & actor from East Lancashire. His poems have appeared in fourteen poems, The Rialto and Impossible Archetype. He lives in London.
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