purge - poems and short stories

adolescence

When I think of my adolescence, I think

of the agonising tick of each minute,

and of myself,

promising over and over not to watch each second

with its infinitely sluggish crawl

creep between the plaited hair-width distance of two schoolchildren

barrelling through the playground doors.

There's sweet Harold with his walker,

deprived of an eye,

asking for his flat white and toast to be brought out,

claiming I was one of his favourites,

who can talk for days,

of weather and eye surgery,

and gee, aren't the people here just great.

I regard him warmly, making quick study

of the passage of time written on the lines of his face,

thinking of him long after his table is cleared.

Sanitiser smears the pages of my thoughts,

spray bottle waning low,

as I make my rounds from table to empty table

on this graveyard shift.

Author's Note: I have scattered pages of poetry and shitty writing lying around everywhere. This is my attempt at clearing the clutter and making room for more. I don't quite know what to do with them - they have no audience, and whether they have any value or not, they need a home. Everything does.