Out of Reach

How can something

Be so close,

As close as my own


And still remain




I reach,

I stretch,

It’s all around me,


But I cannot grab hold

Of it.



The scent of it

Fills me,


And confuses me,

Because it is.



It’s in the smell

Of fresh bread

Drifting from the bakery,

Lazily engulfing me.



It’s in exhaust

Thrown in thick clouds

From the tailpipes of cars

Working overtime

In the cold.



It’s the smell of a caramel macchiato


With that of too many bodies

Packed tight

Inside a large mobile

Metal box.



In the stomach-threatening


Of whole shops choked

With artificial cinnamon

And pine,

It’s there.



It’s amid

The mad-dash rush

Of consumerism,

Filling stockings

And emptying wallets.



It’s in the calls and the ringing

Of the bell-ringers,

Standing in the snow

For charity

Outside over-priced

Department stores,

And everything their presence




All of these things pronounce it,

Over megaphones,


And chipper music

Piped in for the




Yet I can’t find it


I feel like a

Blindfolded fool,

Stumbling this way and that

Inside a round room,

Eternally searching

For a corner

In which

To sit.




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