Trips to the Bottom of the Well

When you’re not paying attention, you trip and tumble in.

You take off your jacket so it doesn’t get wet. Neatly folded it bobs on the surface.

Even when you’re not in the well, you’re still in the well.

A lady with a clipboard asks you to pick from 1 to 5, but you’re not listening, you’re drip drip dripping brown all over her nice new brogues.

“You’re lucky, your well’s one of the nice wells.”

Open every window to air out the damp. Sit up last so they don’t see the dark oval.

When you’re down, look up. Telescopic blue with flashes of bird.

Reach out to steal flight.

Sometimes it’s your turn in the well, sometimes it’s the bird’s. Sometimes it’s both, so you hold hands under the line.

Plum colours malt in the murk. She opens her mouth to chirp and the soup rushes in.

Feather heavy, she sinks.