She’s singing in a room of people
queuing for her to make them drinks.
She’s weaving reality into the lyrics.
Woah, I’m halfway there
Woah, livin’ on a prayer
Take your tea, I made it I swear
Woah, livin’ on a prayer
A man with a history creased
into his forehead yells Come again?!
The cafe’s supervisor falls over
in front of the cleaner holding
A baby vomits. A chair breaks, untouched.
The woman won’t stop singing.
My skin loosens. My ears whisper,
You’re alive mate.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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