I’m trying my best now.
I am leaving the house on occasions
and letting the sun sink into my skin.
I’m told that it is good for me,
and for once I’m willing to listen.

I’m wiping flakes of pastry
and powdered sugar from my lips.
Almonds collect on the plate beside me,
as I stop and think of you over coffee;
assessing how far we’ve come.

The folks in here are old.
They move slower than the usual
rush that is found in the streets
below; never thinking, never stopping,
but always looking for more.

I wonder what they think of me.
I should be out having ***, trying on
loud shirts and sporting caps in the mirror,
whilst binge-drinking the fountain of youth,
and chasing it down with holy wine.

Instead I sit with them, frozen
in place with a notebook I don’t deserve,
sipping falsely on a macchiato,
whilst hoping I don’t get found out;
whilst hoping to become the furniture.

This death is approaching me.
I see it in the demise of poetry,
and in the grey hair of the book shop loyalists.
I see it in their ringed eyes,
as they look upon me like some species of bird

they’d long thought to have gone extinct.