Without a Hitch

It goes without a hitch. Peeling the lid off the fifth vanilla yoghurt. Until it makes you gag. Buy two more tomorrow. Fold the laundry until the crying stops. Lift the toothbrush to your mouth. The two handed brush because it’s too heavy for one hand. You know. When you look at yourself. There can’t be many more days. But it’s seamless. The seven day shuffle. The thirty year pause. I suck the neckline of my shirt. Taste the wastage. The wreckage. Get dressed. Sit in the waiting room. Look at the poster. Care fit enough for my family. Hold the water bottle in my hand. Maybe this afternoon. The plastic tub by the three boxes of cereal. The waffle squares that come up quicker than they go down. I think about belonging. Belonging to a house. A home. I smile at the rocking man. It’s always the same faces. We are the beige walls. The poster ink has more shine than us. We know. We always know. Nobody would take us home. Yoghurt by yoghurt. There is no place left to find. I think about this. In the toilet with the window in the roof. The place where I think it would be nice to deploy the black bag. It sinks in. With every inhalation of stale piss and dirty floors. With every door not closed properly. That nobody sees me any more. And I go on. Without a hitch.