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To Christopher Barnes's previous piece

Refuge
 
Too-tight shoes.
This morning I had fried bread with cold coffee.
The grease inside of me is hardening.
 
I found a room for plain speaking,
case notes hanging
insensible in the waft, soughing
from the air-conditioner.
 
Under a thumb, the jaundiced ink
of my name tape
sunbathed in the lustre
pushing its weight around
at the blinds.
 
Mr. Fix it hit it,
refresher coursed through it
then vapourised
into the backswept corridor.
 
My name was swapped for this number
but it doesn't live, it doesn't even seem
to recognise me.

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