release feet from shoes

and all the rules

of walkie-talkie-buzz-twice-if-you-see-someone-with-a-rucksack tyrants

 

strip off the shirt that hurts

your heart and worse

that calf-length skirt

 

feel feet on floor

and slam the door like it’s that cow’s head . . .

slide into bed

eat some lindor

and tell your mum you’re too busy to talk

 

kettle on.

listen to the escaping steam scream

and to your heavy sigh-breathing,

not proud to help.

 

© Lydia Allison 2012

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