It’s not a reflection on you, climbing the stairs to happiness (what flights?),

trying to leave at the door the low-tops of ambivalent love.

Whose turn is it to shock absorb the ordinary once more?

Emotional labour slides in restaged or rug-stuck rites.

To hum at the grind, clock-work engine in grandstand traffic.

Assumed face of calm as compassion congests in the blood.

Red-corner smiles of encouragement, Marie-Antoinette comfort

for the over-casualised, infantilised offspring

of the stalled revolution. What goes unnoticed spreads to home,

a tirade of to-do ticks, outward well-wishing and the hug

of small invite returns. Evening vigils to dispel

uncertain terrors. Ghost-shopping for milk, discount

packets of human kindness pantried for the winter,

It’s not just about taking a leaf out of the book, more out of the gutter.

Roof over our heads, heads-up, everyone’s fine.

Maintenance is what holds the body or households together

Sticky-tape rebuilds, take-home projects of heart work.

The hold-all basket of “working families” still guillotine

feminism’s parallel lives and the cause beautiful.