All words © Stephanie Powell | Attic Poet
Monday, Day 1 Socked mouth Behind the double Glazing the wide Road sounds like A humming fridge Behind a wall. Humming is the word That sticks to the Mouth after an hour Of sitting and watching The human / car traffic On parade. Watching Saturday morning Stir and hold shape.
Tuesday, Day 2 By midday the Bottleshop is open And the shop sign says SAMPLE fine beer- Just to make you Think of beer, To thirst on A middling summer Day inside This apartment. A man, running With a deerhound, Strides towards The unseen junction.
Wednesday, Day 3 Dachshund- Drooping belly Like a piece of Calamari trotting At the sandaled Heel of its owner And today it is So hot the Tarmac is singing With fire. It’s got magma Coursing through belly. And the dog bounces A little higher Because of the Heat at its feet
Thursday, Day 4 Last night we Followed the Tram tracks home All the way From Preston. We left when The house party began To grow a new Head, wide eyes Growing wider under The firelit trees The living room A new universe In disorder-
Plump with sweat And dancing. But us sobering, Content to Close the door And find The car, The music softening Behind us As though Someone was turning Down the dial With each step
Friday, Day 5 Young men, Sixteen to thirty-five A steep curve In Accidental death- Road accidents Ski accidents Bike accidents A no-seatbelt Way of living And dying A compacted, Death of Many different Shaped parts, Like how New cars Crumble up On impact- These days.
The tram Leans into A bend and I follow The conversation Between the Two old blokes Like a curve Snaking its Way through the Pages of My book. And I can see Myself from The outside Writing this Down later Visible in A corner of Window, above A wobbling Tree line. Cables partitioning Sky without limit.