The pressed kiss of my buttocks
against the cold concrete is mediated by
the thin cloth of my jeans
This bench is a parasite
Across its placenta of 96% cotton and 4% spandex
it steals every molecule of heat
from my begrudging ass
In games of waiting I am a sore loser
with muscles aching and contorted from
spasms of shivering
teased out by every cold breeze
each of them lovers – must be
to garner such
instantaneous, overwhelming reactions
The wind caresses my face with ice
kisses the tip of my nose with frostbite
attempts other intimate contact
I would like to defer
There is nowhere to run,
only the cold confines
of this damn stone bench
pressed up against my backside
unsolicited dance partner
I cannot wait
for this waiting
to be done.
The last time I went to the health centre, I was distracted from reading a years-old issue of Vogue by a tiny bird who was really going at it with the tinted glass doors.
He would fly away a little distance then dive-bomb the glass before bouncing off to land on the handle. He kept at it for five minutes at a time, fluttering his wings pompously and tapping at the glass with his beak in desperation. Then he’d flay away and come back to do it all again.
I was starting to wonder if he was trying to get inside (birds need medical attention too) or if he was trying to get me to come outside so he could tell me he got turned into a bird by an evil magician and could I please help him to break the spell. This makes sense because my name is Robyn so of course I have an affinity for the avian species. Who else would the man-trapped-in-a-bird’s-body be trying to contact, some chick named Jane? Please.
But then I asked the receptionist about it, and she was all “Oh, it’s a seasonal thing. I think they like to play with their reflections, or they just like how the handle feels. They’re destroying the tint, though.”
I like my version better.