Shamble up and over
coffee quakes and tea dreams
pace the floor, shake out the fridge,
notice how quiet it’s grown,
like the part in the movie where something bad
is about to happen
except in this case, it already has.
Saturday sun’s already trying to claw inside
like a nosy neighbour
like a serial killer that wants
to warm you up and go for a walk
to get croissants.
Last night rests in your stomach
like a houseguest on the couch
you’re not sure if you should disturb
with breakfast or gravol.
Put an old record on,
a classic you pilfered from your father’s collection,
sway and saunter through the crackles and pops
and stretch from one end to the other,
picking yourself up as you go.
Find your feet where you left them by the front door.
Find your tongue in the sink with the other knives.
You’re not quite sure how your arms wound up behind the couch
but you vaguely remember losing a wrestling contest with yourself.
Snap yourself back into place like a Lego castle
you cobbled together from four other sets.
Something’s missing, but you’re still all together.
Call that enough for now,
Call that enough pieces
start your stumble through, and remember
it’s okay to pause the scene and ask yourself