The Fourth Wall in the Cubicle

They’re in the thick of it.
Ruthless suitcases of bare essentials
nipping at their ankles.
Cut-throat textiles
stiffening their caffeine bodies,
preparing them for the post-mortem.

Their heads tilt upwards only
to check the train times.
If they’ve missed it, they do not show it.
If it’s delayed for another four hours
because of an accident on the line,
they do not show it.

If the lines of their veins
are exploding like rigid sherbet sticks
because they are so, so scared,
they do not show it.

What did they trade in exchange
for anonymity in a three sided cubicle?

I wonder who is there to love them,
if they’ve ever been high,
why they last cried.
If they always wanted this,
if they ever wanted this,
when they noticed the first wrinkle.

I wonder if they ever want
to dissolve into the sunlight
and glisten across the ocean,

disrupted by nothing but clouds.

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