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The Trough

The Trough


The trough.

Restlessness slithers into my veins, the serpent of endless possibility. It circulates, scraping my insides, leaking its venom but sinking its fangs into nothing. An ache in my teeth that cannot be gnashed away.

The broken-glass toxins refract harsh light, immobilizing photographers in a shimmering haze that forces cultures smarter than my own into siestas.

I toil listlessly, in the menial labour of 2pm, air conditioned socks not yet done collecting sweat. A fluorescent tube noisily refuses to die.

Bus drivers slump low over their steering wheels.

Morning has spoiled, its sweetness now nauseating. I close my eyes and swallow. Night, and its cool hand are waiting.