Unmoving dance

20th of September 2025

My head will be bitten off

as soon as I extend it,

thinking about the demise

of public transport.

I want to crawl inside

the small, yellow filing cabinet

and become stationery,

protract the day - even this

abrupt, grey, diurnal headline -

and spend time swinging

through the air like a leaf

or a feather. I am a dead letter

doing a chicken dance, words

spurting from where my head

used to be. I am running in circles

waiting for metamorphosis.

To you, this is infernal movement.

To me, this is stillness

on the deck of an old bus

circumnavigating the globe

or stuck in an eternal city jam,

trying not to stare at the swollen feet

of a man passed out beside a pub.

You must understand, I have no plan,

other than to crawl back inside

the filing cabinet

and come out tomorrow morning,

once I am finished with my stupid,

frenetic, unmoving dance.