Freshly Painted Cream Walls

Published on: May 15, 2025

#posts #poetry

One IKEA bag full of ill judged clothes - baggy shirts,
faded bootcut jeans. Another holding new pans, 
an orange duvet still wrapped in plastic. Flyers 
for welcome parties and printouts and maps 
lie scattered over the plywood desk.
No one here knows or cares who I am

so I am a blackboard scrubbed clean. 
I decide not to be defined by worry.
Starting at my acne-pitted forehead, 
    I peel off the shape of who I was
       and, laughing to the empty room,
       
                  I am recast without anyone noticing,
                    my script punched up and rewritten.

  
                         I become  the city’s traffic pulse,
                    black coffee      unexpected fireworks, 
                    a bass drop    in a sweaty club      at two am, 
                        become a dust mite      spinning out

                                 caught in a shaft  

                                        of dawn light
 

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