It was probably well acquainted with the floor.
Creases at war, over fabric at which
To settle their constant ridges; an ingrained
Mountain range in the crevice of an elbow.
Pocket’s chiselled to the contours of fists
Invitations of feeble warmth, the seams of denim
Stippled punctures stand to attention, rattles
Orchestrated with the oscillation of a foot;
the jangling chatter of electric illustrations,
that pattern the monochrome of a New Wave.
Acid charcoal for collar pelt, dampened
By the shadows of yesterday’s rain,
Tobacco spiced cologne marinating the strands, it’s scent
permeating the lull of a classroom; I could smell
It, on a Monday morning, both
the smoke and staleness of unfinished homework.
It’s funny, how the grooves of aged clothes sit
like eyes in the back of heads; seams unravelling,
that sutured the threads of once,
a stranger. A self-portrait
maturing, every stitch, fragmented wisdom
Like pensive retrospection from an arm-chaired grandmother.
The back, a portrait through curdled paint brushes.
An attack of crooked ivory, a patchwork silhouette
The sweat of a Wednesday evening, my palette
of cheapened chalk. Its own exhibition with
an offering from us each, if only a candle stick
stuck through the flesh of buttonholes, and garlands
sown into stretched pockets, it should really belong on a wall
in Brixton. It would be closer that way.
– Mia Roe