Plan B

We flop around on the gym mats like psychotic kippers. The mats are the same colour as the plastic beakers. Blue and yellow. From a shop that doesn’t sell edges. I roll my body left and right. My body. Rolling. Moving. Turning. Against the tide of my head runrunrun There is a piece of metal on the concrete yard. I pace. It is a test. Like the window. The one they said I couldn’t open. The one I pushed and sucked in air from. Not so secure. Secured. The lift takes us up and down. Up and down. Bodies up and down. Every ten minutes. Minds left behind. Mine is floating somewhere around the window of room 23. Some parts still roam the beige place. I can’t catch it. My mind. I can’t pin it down. Minutes pass in groups of ten. Plans forgotten between floors. Pull the wires from the magnets. Climb up the tree. Bestride the fence. Wait for the click click on the doors push run run. Room 23 is breaking me down. Crumbling me up. I am constituent parts. Legs. Arms. Head. My body flops around on the mat. Not quite connected. The yellow and blue sponge cushions the blow of my landing. My name remains absent from the board. I am not allocated. Located. I am flopping around like a kipper. Barely able to hold onto a plan. Rolling back and forth. Between A and B. And nothing.