It’s always this. What to have for dinner. The procedure for having a shower in each new bathroom. Where to prepare my food in each new kitchen. The idea of someone’s cat in my bed with claws and hair and dirt. Yet we’re made of dirt and most people live in dirt. The grimy kettle, the grotty sink, the black mould in the soap dispenser inside the washing machine. People don’t see it. Don’t register it. Think of other things. The next job. The next ex. The mother, the father, the trauma. The scratches on the next car. What to have for dinner. Where to go next.
First published in Meniscus 10.1, June 2022
Jackson 