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I started this poem yesterday and let it wind out in the same way someone’s day would. I tried to capture twelve hours of someone going about their normal day, while they struggle to cope in the aftermath of a momentous crisis and are merely functioning.



I open my eyes

and turn, to

inhale a pillow

thick and sweet

still full of you.

As water gushes

away beards of suds,

my feet find grooves

where yours once stood,

each pummel a

uterine push

into the day.

Abuzz with chatter

the bus trundles

on leaden wheels,

through engine laden

roads that grip

Dublin in a choke.

At work, endless

questions demand

my attention, seeking

answers far too

trivial for me to care.

Lunch is over letters,

each bite a memory

that tumbles in

somersaults on

a reel of

my regrets.

Afternoon gets

lost to the licks of

evening, its tongue

black with hours

never given back.

In bumps and shudders

the bus speeds,

quicker than itself

emptying in gluts

of people with

somewhere to go.

Back home is

packed with silence,

the walls still numb

with the shock of

being left alone.

Dinner pings to life;

a slop of colours

swirling on a plate

that slip down past

the ache, a frozen lake

couldn’t stem.

I close my eyes

and squeeze,

take in a pillow

full of you and pack it

full of kisses, my heart

its feathers on

a wounded wing.