Monologue

Monologue 

secondhand ticks slow, my head is hung low 
drear interior, greys and whites, with flickering lights 
floors so waxed they reflect, myself i can see 
my state is in step with the lighting, jitter 
bitter, the coffee is stale, she was pale 
racing speech, i understand, i comprehend 
my mind moves faster, than a greyhound race. 
wait. 
what did she say, i was distracted 
by that monologue, will those behind me 
not be silent, i just want them to be compliant. 

12/12/21 – Andy McRae