back in the kitchen. heat wraps me: each day feels lassoed.  

teens warm the seaside. fit surfers nagging  

for me in ferry light. my teats beg for grease in my bra  

I want the primary‐coloured joys of club nights—they shift  

on mixer cartons till squared neatly. flat-  

tenning bins. now I’m dancing. rolling my collarbone for hours.

noise from revellers buzzes the coast. echoes in my free hours  

wide as moonglade: my sorrows stay lassoed  

under my vest. the roads roar underneath someone else’s shift.  

my thoughts like bucket and spades. primary‐coloured bodies nagging  

moonlight to fall gently on fumes. the night can’t go flat  

until taxis circle in my bodycon ricochet and time pauses at my bra  

I blame my trainers for sore ankles after the longest shift  

nausea keeps haunting my chest. tenderness packed in a bra  

it’s late. luminescence falls on concrete roads nagging  

for taxi grease. the metre ticks down my hours  

home, work, then college. my path home lassoed  

by what’s left of executive function. I’m pressing empty cartons flat.

I turn my big want and hunter’s eyes to where morning arrives flat-  

packed. I’m dragging cartons through routine. minutes blur my shift  

thoughts pester as the BlackBerry sings. lassoed  

to work, college then home, where I peel off my bra  

no longer smooth. sip instant hot chocolate. stale tongue on stolen hours  

soon I’m in bed with a predator’s need. sleep with a nagging.

that roadkill carcass in the car park. nagging  

the crumpled shapes on curb. my nerves spike before they go flat.  

roads like concrete rivers under the moon. minutes lassoed to hours.  

I’m lost in my own pace—feel a lion’s tug in every shift  

thick orbit of exhaust fumes. holidays parked in my bra.  

my notebook grows erotic. my summer plans left lassoed.

holidays nag like primary plastic buckets. they shift  

grease into the bones of work‐bound spades, which lie flat  

as celestial light folding beneath my bra. hours lassoed still.