| | | Art Cult: The Motions | | by NATHAN CURNOW | | She looks about thirty,
working the café as best she can,
inflating the milk,
sweeping the floor,
trying to please a boss
who ignores her until
she finally makes a mistake.
I am twenty-eight,
heading in the same direction,
looking for work as a kitchen hand
with certificates for everything
but steam and ceramic.
The fly-wire at the window
has torn edges that flap lightly
in the wind off the river;
stretched of dignity
it is holding on,
going through the motions.
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