Perhaps it is simply a case
of stepping on,

fingers bent into palms,
knuckles milky white,

the typically British palaver
of locating a seat

with their tasteless patterns,
a table with the sticky

residues of fifteen coffees.

Perhaps it is simply a case
of zoning out,

reels of fields.

Perhaps it is simply a case
of a phone turned on,

a book with the spine
not quite fractured.

Of course, of course,
perhaps it is simply a case

of not stepping on,

of wallowing in your ragged
safety net fashioned

from string, from dead skin.

But, of course,

you shouldn’t, but you will,
but you can’t, but you can,

but you want to,
but you won’t do.

Perhaps then, it is simply a case
of one foot in front of the other,

stepping off, fists unclenched,
pulse regular and thumping

at the wrists,
your own language of success.