The shelves on my bookcases are bowing.
Not because they’re overstuffed with literature
but because they’re doorless wardrobes
with extra shelves screwed in.
Most days I feel like a cheap version
of the real thing struggling to do its job.
I’m a floorboard with a nail sticking out,
a washing machine with no door.
I’m a room temperature freezer, a deflated football.
I can be a fluffless rug, a toothless tiger.
I sometimes don’t drink water when I’m thirsty
because I’m in one of the rooms with no taps.
© Carl Burkitt 2020