Carbon (Stable)

We have become the tide

Carbon (Stable).

I lace up
these old oxblood shoes
that I bought from a man in Fife.
We've never met;
we likely never will.

Unpolished leather embraces blistered feet,
from heel to toe and back again.
I wonder if I am somewhat
occupying
this stranger’s persona,
because what I am doing here
is really not me—
not me at all.

Sitting on a train, buzzing around capital skies,
I watch people edge ever so close to death.
They are all slowly returning to carbon.
Signals fail regularly.
We should pay attention to this world;
it is hoarse with its cry.

The leather soles click concrete.
I have a cadence that moves this aching mass forwards.
Pastel shirts cover the stained ink of
a half-finished scar—
my ribs are etched with memories.

With discordant riffs,
I am once again moving in fifths.

A man
opposite from me
ritually licks his hands
before using his phone.
Not just his fingers,
but a protruding, white-pimpled tongue
spreads flat
against dry palms.

Rapeseed fields fade west as
flowers purpled by Chet Baker hang south.
They drip morning tears
that reflect stillborn life
before dropping down to the welcoming earth.

I contemplate it all—
whether to throw myself in front of the delayed bullet.
Alas, I restrain.

The sky blackens as grey clouds gather.
Commuters robotically
and autonomously move over London Bridge.
We have become the tide,
and this life is washing over me.

We have become the tide.

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