I sit in the same ******* chair
everyday, it’s a weird shape,
it looks like a square trying to be a circle.
And, so gratefully it matches the floor.
Colour coordination? check.

I drink at the coffee shop indefinitely,
daily. I hate the way the seats began
to mould to my body’s bitter behaviour,
like the chair is my theatrical therapist.

The sticky seat ***** on my snub-nosed
sedation to get up and move
as I sit perfectly still,
watching a brilliantly busy world go by.
And the nice girl is asking me
“do you want the latte to take away?”
No. I’m alright,
I’ll drink it in here thanks.

Sally doesn’t get the puzzle,
maybe she’d be better
at the pub quiz. Or perhaps,
she should just stay at home,
watch T.V.

Sally places a cereal bowl
on the teatime table,
cooking dinner is a chore,
and her finger sting from a burn.

Sally doesn’t iron the towels,
or the kitchen table –
that would be strange.
Instead, she pours beer
onto the floor
and leaves it to stick.

Sally’s not sure
if she’s sad
or if she’s happy.
Either way
both are just existing.