Cut a hole through the ceiling, the insulating batts, tin sheets.
Climb out that way, spacetime jelly-wobbles.
I might revisit the demolished pub, say something else at the rock pool
decline the offer of a garden tour, take my plate out to eat with the others
give water to the thirsty bird, walk past the walk-in wardrobe
never think about the toaster oven or even the kitchenette
decline the second cup of coffee. On the sidetable a box of tissues.
A dry eye, I got lost on the way out, matt corridors
a house in a dream, a trustworthy figure directing me to exit
the warped, exuberant magazines, the yellow daisies with tawny centres
the prohibition, the fat black bear, the fact I’m here
the flattened ear, the greek key patterning the curtains
ice cream container full of leftover barbecued steaks.
The aluminium ladder in the aboveground pool
sinking slowly on one side. I was wearing a bouclé
v-neck jumper, mustard yellow, and I didn’t feel like talking.
Ali Jane Smith
1 February 2017