Poetry

Breakfast

in the margin of the morning we are on holiday
the coughing men and coffee men are buffered awake
by bad radio hair and the cold bathroom alarm

       tolerated here in chunks of ten and fifteen at a time
      on the wrong side of the crack, and heading further inland
      everything sounds pretend

              it's not ours for the using, not this bit
              you can try to catch the night off-guard, before it's ready to leave
              but every start is a trespass in this other, retreating place

                     yesterday's overspill car park is full
                    but we still bite back and take pieces out to save for later
                    how long can you hold your breath for? I bet it's no longer than this.

Lucy Holt