PRESERVATIVES

2025 Spring

The muzzle of Winter has subsided. 

The sun screams.

Its kerosene breath

igniting the stillroom of Spring. 

There is a pantry on Chalcot Square. 

Houses in a row;

Yellow door, pink house, blue house, purple door.

Preserved and pickled. 

They are frosted tea cakes. 

A delicatessen of stale emotion.

The world happens, and still, 

they remain in this room.

I sense an uneasy nature.

An apprehensive hand cupping the atmosphere. 

Humidity gaping through 

its unsealable fingers. 

Waiting now,

for the ambush of stillness.

A glance, from the next room.

From another dimension.

We stargaze at a future that’s only liquid ice.

Filled with glittered crickets. 

Transforming to dismal clouds of fruit flies.

The kind that prey on spoiled ideas.

The kind that prey on the lack of preservatives.