The day punched me like a thug.
In the blinding white canteen
I hovered in the lunch queue
propped up by an apathetic wall,
consciousness a petty glimmer.
I ricoched between shadow and sun
eye lids in spasm,
sentience like a radio jolting out of signal,
maybe dying.
I pulled away-
I could not eat.
The stench of expired synthetic pork
nauseated,
anaesthetised
and killed.
Breath could not be drawn
‘mongst perspiring bodies
pressed together-
fumbling,
dripping,
whining
like a horde of elephants at a rotting fruit tree.
