There was the time she posed as a proper person,
up at seven with organised eyes,
spinning the wheel of coffee heart and computer clack,
a life in neat multi-coloured folders.
An alarm went off in her pocket—
and now the world stank of Boots’ perfume and cigarettes
she spoke in fluent Bacardi Breezer
knew every bar in South East London
flew through the day to get to the pub on the other side
until life became a barman that would no longer serve her.
Men with magnet mouths waited for her to exceed her limit
found ways to climb inside.
Now she sits like a stale buttered scone
who nobody wants to pick up or eat
or even look at that way.
She thinks this is delicious and funny at the same time.