There Is A Man At The Foot Of The Bed by Zöe Sîobhan Howarth-Lowe


first on his belly;

then flipping, crabwise, upside down.


belly up, then belly down.


First dragging, nose along carpet-edge,

snouting through dust-bunnies.

Then erect;

twisting, thrashing, grinding against the footboard.


I know you can see him too,

if only out of the corner of your eye.


He parading himself,

flashing in and out of our eye line.


His contorting body, black

oily Lycra –


showing every fibrous muscle cluster,

every twitch of nerve.


It is a grotesque display;

like a dying wasp – yet my eyes keep

returning to the spot he inhabits.

Peripheral but not quite out of vision.


This man I cannot draw attention to,

the one I know you see is there –

but will not mention.


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