I am a remote control, clutched in swathes of duvet
An alarm sounding at 4am, bolt upright, wide eyes.
A glass of water leaving a ring on the counter.
A neon ribbon of writing burns the screen as it moves,
numbers flicking and fluctuating, with microphones
under the chins of the stuttering. Frantic face after frantic face.
Early, Blue sweeps and soars
But Red encompasses. Swallows us.
White and brown and black and yellow. All panicked, all paling.
Half a world away, I feel the tremors,
As they troop on stage, a snake of patent heels,
Crisp suit lines and sunken, vacant eyes. That one Red tie.
They can put up walls. Watch their faces when they see us climb.
Shannon Bushby is a British writer with a degree in English and Creative Writing from the University of Chichester and literacy teaching experience under her belt. She is currently working on a book length manuscript of fiction and has most recently had work published by The Grief Diaries and The Crucible. Catch her blog here.