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Poetry

Wednesdays

Palm comes crashing

down onto the table

as you thrust your papers

into my face.

“What is this?”

you demand,

spitting in your fury,

mouth frothing.

Yet I’m the one in the cage.

“It’s all wrong,

why is it wrong?”

We stare at each other.

Both red-faced.

Both a little alarmed

by what you do next.

You tear away

from the desk,

like the shreds of paper

you leave behind

for me to clean up.

You roar,

slamming the door,

as you go.

I take a deep breath.

Smile, of course.

Whose next?

“Hi, how can I help?”


Customer service.

Whilst this is fiction, I draw on the sort of experiences I’ve faced working in customer service for a number of years.  I find from a psychological perspective (oh, there’s me utilising that A-Level) the behaviour of a customer to a cashier fascinating – I’ve been shouted at, sworn at, lied to, harassed. I’ve even heard of friends being attacked and stalked.  Always take a moment to remember that those figures behind the counter aren’t mindless drones – they’re just people.

Emma

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October 12, 2017
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The Man at the Station

Broken Mannequin

I see your legs

bent and broken,

and I think:

Thank God

I can still walk.

Thank God

I can run,

if I wanted to.

I return to the sofa.


I was musing today about the marvels of movement, after seeing an elderly man being overtaken by speedy commuters on their way home from work.  It was very humbling, though I still spent the evening in front of the television.

Emma

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August 22, 2017
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These Eyes

A while ago, inspired by my discovery of zines, I created a few poetry pieces for a collection, just for my own amusement.  I found one of these today whilst tidying and thought I’d share.

“These eyes
have seen it all,”
he says,
bottle slamming
onto the table.
Drink spilling
in his haste.
Palms over
eyes,
he is still
for just a moment.
Still
but
still remembering.
“These eyes
have seen it
all,”
he says.
“I wish
they hadn’t.”

The poem was called These Eyes and was part of a series of old poems I don’t even remember writing.  I just happened to dig them up in the depths of the ‘Writing’ folders on my computer.  It feels strange to find something I don’t remember writing, like I don’t even know who I was when I created it.  I barely dabble in poetry, which makes it even stranger!  Anyway, I enjoyed cutting letters out of newspapers and bringing the poem to life with some olde typewriter font.  There’s a few other poems I have adapted in the same way that I might share too at some point.

Happy writing,

Emma

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May 9, 2017
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