Hotdesk Almanac


She keeps secrets in me.

Lifts my lid for privacy,

blows bubbles in my guts,

leaving evidence inside

with full impunity.

I am discreet



He spits bile inside me.

Hatred for his mummy

and the baby

and the way the teacher treats him

like he's soft.

He's not.

I contain his scarlet ache safely.


I display names and dates,

scratched in perpetuity,

significant to no one now

but me.

I am their history.


I soak up saliva, endeavour, secretions, bad temper, frustration, intentions, and tears.


            I echo young flesh bent double

            over long division



water colour imprints of a small boy's dreams

wrought in indigo blooms                                          


G     rough-book margins.


I have held purple shame, ragged breath,

passed-around-the-class nasty notes,

stolen fuzzy felt, plasticine catharsis

coloured orange, blue, and green.

I am wood, legs, nails, holes, hurt.

I collect.



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Not Doris Day's Armpits ►


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