The shortening of this free time,
a tranquil hour, as chaos and celebration
continues behind closed doors and bars,
allowing the patter of rat’s feet to echo
That first sip always tastes bitter now,
my taste buds filed down by decades
of misplacement. A singular crack
in the glass is enough now to bring
the evening to a close.
The recovery over four days lets
those clouds slowly break but without
rain; just a gradual reminder that our
stride has shortened, our voices
now grate the most stable of nerves.
It all creeps up too early, like fungus
across damp carpets and manages
to break our delicate swagger that never
holds more than its own body weight,
it’s center never as soft as we like to portray.
©2021 Jonathan Butcher All rights reserved.
Jonathan Butcher has been writing poetry for around twelve years. He has had work appear in various print and online publications including: The Morning Star, Popshot, The Rye Whiskey Review, Mad Swirl, Drunk Monkeys and others. His third chapbook Corroded Gardens was published by Fixator Press.