I lean against,
The faintly musty
That underground odour.
The air a notch colder than my body,
And barely noticeable.
There are no sounds from outside,
Only a regular clanking as wire hits metal.
A wooden table vibrates
And the lighting
The red rust.
The signs of human presence are:
Cigarette stubs in the sink,
Stained paintbrushes, a forgotten sock.
In this grimy fort,
I let my fatigue
And my uncertainty
About the Poet
Isabella Maya is a part-time economist who likes time to think, write poetry, and separate her organic waste. She lives in a tiny flat by the sea in Cape Town, South Africa, generally figuring out what brings her meaning and joy. She hopes to have enough imagination to comprehensively rethink the economy fairly soon.