We have each become a small world,
spinning from one collision to another.
We scrub cities off our skins
and watch its roads leave tracks in the bath.
Damp rises, rent rises, high-rises.
Look how the cities' silhouettes grow new forests for us.
What new constellation of stars guides us home?
We are tower block light flickers come evening
crammed into shoe boxes, basements,
living room-come-bedrooms.
Stretch out our feet to turn the TV on.
Reach out for our phones,
our faces made radiant by its birdsong.
Mining happening somewhere, but we can’t be sure.
We are compassion in 140 characters.
We are lying lonely next to each other
between paper thin walls.
We know our neighbour’s shouts and moans.
She sounds like a redhead, I think.
Rent rises, heat rises, sea rises.
Put the kettle on, scald dinner in microwaves.
Droughts happening somewhere, but we can’t be sure.
Tesco Metro fluorescence lives on.
I wonder what will this all look like in 50 years’ time.
How will our cities exhale then?
How will we wear our loss?
How will we sleep when we cannot turn our alarm clocks off ?
We have each become a small world,
spinning from one collision to another.
Selina Nwulu (21st century) England
Source: Selina Nwulu website
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