Nov 2020
Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and
On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my cranium, and
A fleeting wave of sloth drenched my appetite,
For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, was
It a gift from a platonic friend -
Loosely it sat, half-worn upon my shoulder
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
Pride took sovereign, covering up the rest,
That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, an anchor
Upon my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,
A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite
All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was all too eager
To confront the temptress in my pocket,
Which hand will volunteer, the right
Or the left - a modest nudge should do the trick,
Oh what is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,
A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,
What is it, what is it that hides away
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,
What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I do not concede shame, perhaps
I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe then my worries will drift off,
Like an ebb and flow temporarily retiring,
Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left
Hand answers, and small splinters
Of serrated seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas, it is only a chip,
Now that I have struck, it has become
Unbreakable, and I am certain
It shall never untether from my home,
Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when
Will the sunshine revisit, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and
On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my cranium, and
A fleeting wave of sloth drenched my appetite,
For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, was
It a gift from a platonic friend -
Loosely it sat, half-worn upon my shoulder
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
Pride took sovereign, covering up the rest,
That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, an anchor
Upon my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,
A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite
All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was all too eager
To confront the temptress in my pocket,
Which hand will volunteer, the right
Or the left - a modest nudge should do the trick,
Oh what is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,
A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,
What is it, what is it that hides away
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,
What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I do not concede shame, perhaps
I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe then my worries will drift off,
Like an ebb and flow temporarily retiring,
Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left
Hand answers, and small splinters
Of serrated seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas, it is only a chip,
Now that I have struck, it has become
Unbreakable, and I am certain
It shall never untether from my home,
Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when
Will the sunshine revisit, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.
