clean

part 1.

there's a puddle on the ground
right across the path
i'm wearing my best wellington boots
but it's too muddy and murky to see the bottom
it looks too deep to go through

i'll go around
tip toe on grass
there's barely a gap to the edge of the canal
no hand rail, a sharp drop down
a knife edged moment of concentrate

my brother's still talking
leaves words in the air
the others are lagging behind
back there
my feet are squelching
hands are wet
a bubble of focus
doesn't want to fall

and i'm thinking how something uncomfortable
is happening because of a dirt track
that hasn't been covered in tarmac
let's puddles spread in its hollows and dips
and land in my body's sensory

when i walk in the street
it's much more clean
i barely notice a thing


part 2.

the tables are shrinking
under the weight
of all the scattered glasses and plates
and handbags placed
not far from reach
as crumbs and pepper
pot crowd in

on one, a wine glass sits
collecting the light to itself
funnels it up and down its stem
fractures and bends
above and below
the light of a whole room
in one glass
it's all you can look at

the table is dull beneath
at a loss for what to do
it's not quite steady
rocks in seesaw
as elbows shift
in conversation

and i'm thinking how all this
is distracting me from my
previous thoughts
how it irritates

and yet if it were to be clean
it would be empty
no life to be seen