I picked up an old magazine in the
waiting room and mindlessly turned its pages
and let my gaze slide over its shiny
faces as familiar and strange as a
beast at the zoo, angular models and
fresh skinned socialites and furniture sourced
from exotic places, an intoxicating
dream of glamour and riches that makes me
feel slightly discontented, nonetheless,
an ache in the throat, the weight of my legs
suddenly manifest and that messy
hair of mine, the scruffy coat, the fleshy
ring around the middle, all worn a little
heavier now, until with a sigh and
a papercut I put it down, turned it
away and read on the spine it was printed
in 99 – twelve years ago – have we
been living here all this time? No wonder
we’re tired; what a lot of resisting to
stretch into our days.
