Christopher Crawford

It’s been a while since I felt
the simple comfort of eating
from one plate and washing
it straight afterwards. It’s been ten months since
my mental health was such
that I found a slow smile
in one bed, one table
and one straight backed chair
which looked like it should have been
painted red.

There is a joy in realising
you are no longer
young, sitting in that chair
reading and smoking a beautiful cigarette
while your coffee cools
and the stovetop creaks.
To make small fusty motions to yourself,
walking stiffly, scratching your belly.

Sitting and imagining
all the women in the world.
Surely one has onyx-black hair
that falls like oil
in a wave to her shoulders
and a back the same shape
as a stainless steel ornament found
on an architect’s desk.