These are the seats of the discomfort of backs and arsebones.
These are the leaflets of floating texts and blurs.
These are the tables of magazines flicked, flicked, flicked.
These are the watched doors, disgorging
unknown people whose expressions matter.
These are the floors of books left in bags.
These are the walls hung with paintings,
shrill with the excellent intentions we already hate.
This is the room, holding its women in dread.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Beth McDonough
would be pleased to hear them.