a young poet

I’ve been struggling to start writing today because I’ve been enchanted by the words of a child. ‘I hate it when my mother works – she becomes like a ghost.’ Now why can’t I think of lines like that? I have been so filled with delight by this phrasing that I have been sitting at my desk gazing at the Central Business District from my window, at the bright blinding sunlight, and at the large metal yellow object looking at me just from the top of a sandy seventies-style block (with hundreds of rectangle windows divided in two which make me think of factory farming and deformed chickens squashed in cages laying eggs we eat) that faces me each day I come to work. I stare at the yellow object wondering who, exactly, is filming me? It moves slightly, when I move. If I slide my chair to the left, the large yellow structure and its camera slide with me. If I slide to the right, they, too, slide back. Pigeons coloured-in with lead pencil flap through the clarity, drawing lines across the white-yellow horizon. The meaning is filled with a sadness.