Made tinsel by conniving sunlight,
the mist sparkles outside
but I can only think of the cold.
My fingertips tingle
discomfort bores through spaces
between ball and joint
I turn the key in the ignition
and for the fiftieth time it fails
hope cannot turn over the engine
here, alone, with pen and notepad;
childless, waiting for the mechanic,
time is mine. But as each moment passes
and the length between my last coffee
and painkiller
extends, the further I feel from myself.
It’s almost eleven am.
The bell is about to ring.
I am softened.
I am touched by sentimental fragility
that will be unable to look away
when the bell inevitably rings
and glass doors slide open
and the school children rivulet
like the tide
out across the grounds
full of pep and laughter.
Happy to be released, even to winter.
One of these may be my daughter
who, if she looks towards the carpark,
will see me, breathing into cupped hands,
nose red, toes pinched. Miserable.
To her, I would seem sad.
And she would be right.
Which is why I don’t want her to see —
— Too late. The bell has gone.
I am still here.
I will slide down the seat
stare out at the heavy sky
fiddle with the lights above
like I might on an airplane
all while listening to the sounds of play
filter through the vents of my cold, messy Holden.
