Move on

I wiggle my toes against the tight-laced canvas

Dyed bright red with a toe cap of white,

And look a final time around the room; in a sun-shaft floats

A mote of dust suspended in the breath of my sigh

And from the corner the plant glooms, doleful

It has water to see it out this week but then

It will wither. I shoulder my backpack, packed

And strapped, bulging, and kick at a pile of papers

Left behind. Lest I forget, I place the note ‘forgive me’

On the counter, and turn to go.


About Peter Bates

I'm a young guy in Cape Town, studying English and History, and teaching at high school level. I love to write and to work in theatre, both on and behind the stage. View all posts by Peter Bates

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