Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
I’ll find myself trapped
behind a keyboard, punching the keys
furiously as time runs out.
Hours,
days,
weeks have been spent
writing and memorising and
worrying.
My ambition remains unchecked,
reaching for the skies farther
than I can see.
My desires remain out of sync
with my determination,
colliding and creating new dreams
as a product exponentially,
while my rate of action plateaus.
My mother asked me
to pick up four things:
cat food
sour cream
butter
batteries.
Of course, I jump at the opportunity.
I drive to the furthest supermarket possible,
telling myself I want
6 cents off per liter on fuel.
I’ve prolonged my journey —
because it’s not about the destination —
by parking far away.
I examine the cracks in the pavement,
trying not to think about
enjambment and
allusion and
listing and
irony.
I pass a man
smoking, sitting on the bottom of
a pillar that was not meant to be a bench.
He blows his smoke towards me.
Without question, I inhale it.
I don’t hold my breath around him,
because in the smoke that has
really, for such small particles,
travelled a long way up his lungs and
out of his windpipe
and along his tongue and
out of his mouth.
In that smoke is his life story, one of
childhood turned to adulthood,
habit turned to addiction.
Inside the supermarket,
there’s a lady dressed nicely,
like the shopping trip could either be
a blip or
the pinnacle of her day.
Her eyes are wide,
darting, searching.
I circle around a couple aisles
and there she still is —
but then again,
so am I.
Maybe we’re both
avoiding, wanting
for an excuse to bury
our heads in the aisles upon aisles
of toilet paper, hygiene products,
and litter-box sand.
I examine the rows of butter,
and pick out the cheapest one:
8 dollars and 19 cents.
I think about corruption,
money, and
power.
As I’m leaving,
there’s a man in my way:
My version of Carol Ann Duffy’s wolf.
I blink, and he’s gone,
an ordinary person
standing in his place.
I think about my wolf, how he
bared his teeth and snarled,
and how I never quite forgave him for
ripping the dove from my mouth and
crushing it between his jaws,
before putting it back where it once belonged.
I’m finally at my car and
there’s a little old lady walking
far in front of her husband.
Her grey-black hair is cropped
close to her head, which is
pointed upwards towards the skies.
Maybe,
she’s not so little, not so old.
And maybe,
just maybe,
the whole time I’ve been running
faster and faster, away from
the looming exam,
the fates had me in their clutch and
I never stopped studying after all.
Cerys Gibby – Year 13
