by Chris Buchanan
Poetry, 2025

I will be fine
in time.

I know I’m sat sighing, drawn slack,
laid low, back dipped down
into hard-set dry dust
but I don’t want sympathy

any more.

It may be another week or so
before I no longer look like
a sack of soft potatoes with a sad smile
dragged across the fray with the last of the ink

from a frictionless black nib,
strands loose, grip
gone.