Anchor. Cherry. Bell

One of them falls out. In the library. Reaching for the train timetable. I pick it up. Place it in my wallet. Think of the time on the stairs. How the plan hasn’t shifted but my hands are more still. Less steady on the reach. Not feigning an applause. Awaiting an ovation. Funny. How nobody sees. Little shivers of rust falling out of me. Nervous. I sit in one of the blue chairs. Pick a day. Write it down in the little book. As if it has meaning. Weight. The balance of an equation. Wednesday the fulcrum. Friday too far. Thursday just right. Monday, Tuesday that’s when I should be on the train. Going to the place where I got lost. But it doesn’t figure. The chink of rust falling tells me I am stuck. Dreaming over numbers. Places. I worry about the space left behind. From the one that fell away. I could sew it in place. Anchor myself. Ring the bell of my arrival. Stroke the cherry colour on my flesh. Suck it off. Lick at it. Taste what I have become. All idle plans. Nervous scribbles on the blue chair. Foolish. Stupid. Dumb. I turn the china bones as the boy below turns three. This is where I am.