A Poem a Day (738): Pulling the chain

 
I'm staying at hotels because I've been unemployed for 6 months. I'm not enjoying it. This poem is about that. I've had items go missing at some places and been treated poorly at others. I don't write about my own experiences much, but this one is about mine. I complained at one hotel and was given a story. At two hotels I had drilling in the rooms next door - one time for an hour, another time for three hours.

Pulling the chain
 
Spend four months kipping in hotels
because you don’t have a choice –
no job = no flat – and they’ll soon lose
their idyllic, romantic charm.
 
In the capital you’ll hemorrhage cash,
so choose the cheapest chain,
the buildings you think are the safest.
Can you fork out £100 a night?
 
Down the leafy high street you collide
with a ragged man begging, a girl huddled
in wet cardboard, and you feel sick
at throwing so much money away,
 
wonder when it’s going to run out,
how long til you’re on the same road,
asking for money from everyone you meet,
the cold searing through your veins.
 
In the end the chain just looks the same,
purely functional: a bed, a shower, a desk
and a chair. But it’s a roof over your head,
with your suitcase of your life.
 
You miss the books you want to reread.
You miss the music you used to play.
You miss the festival boots, band T-shirts,
hippy shake skirts – your unique you.
 
Paint-splattered posters, quirky postcards,
personality for your wall, body and soul –
the things you wrote, the things you drew,
the wishes that meant something true.
 
People say objects don’t make you happy,
that striving for them is superficial,
but you spend a lifetime working for them,
to create a comfy world for yourself.
 
In a hotel, you feel anonymous, an actor,
a wanderer adrift in frames devoid of
your expression, each one a carbon copy.
It’s only the angle that changes.
 
Sometimes a stranger disturbs your space,
enters uninvited, thinking the right belongs
to them, as if you’re a pet, an object.
A scarlet heart in this too-white box.
 
People come and go. So does this pursuit of things.
Not for greed or want, but to feel at home.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 20, 2025
 

A Poem a Day (737): Chasing water

 
Chasing water
 
You can smell the rain melt into the trees,
spray the sidewalk a-glitter, invisible chaser,
staring up at sunlight cracking the sky,
a portal promising a backward glance.
Summer breeze shrouds you like a lost coat.
It glistens on your cheek, tickles eyelashes,
trickles down the tilt of your nose,
soaks your skin and T-shirt, skimming
denim shorts, your legs in silken warmth.
This moment sticks on pause. Drifts over.
Just you and the rain. The elements and you.
You blink it back. Endless.
 
He crosses the zebra, avoids the scattergun
of traffic, squints against the tumult,
this downpour heavy like lead, feels it
different, the burden of it. Pain wrapped
in a bow, a rainbow swirl of memories.
The air shifts, a momentary glove,
almost holds out its hand to shake.
A near-miss as a taxi snakes past.
Jump to the kerb and scatter your heart
in the gutter. It’s an instant switch,
this scene dissected into a kaleidoscope
turning, a cubist painting unravelling.
 
She rests her body without motion,
listens to the elemental language,
fingers scooping her hair into place.
A quiet wildness. She doesn’t care.
Water circles down the curve of her back.
She wears socks and trainers like a kid,
yet she’s anything but, in her stance,
in her tranquil contemplation of air,
the leaves in the silver birch above
arching to protect her. She feels it all.
He stands caught in her energy for a time,
outside the hissing spiral of traffic,
all the chaos silenced, erased, blocked,
and only she exists here, unrivalled.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 1, 2025

A Poem a Day (736): Track & trace

 
This was inspired by the daily street harassment I've had from a group of people since April/May. It has been in public places and in my home. It's horrendous. I even got attacked. Altogether, I've had about 10 years of street/physical harassment, threats and noise harassment. When I've complained I've either not been taken seriously, laughed at, or treated like I'm a liar or crazy, but there have been about 100 witnesses to it. I don't know the reason.

Track & trace
 
It’s track and trace,
the age of Big Brother,
every day on record.
 
Can you hear the bounce,
the standoff? Sweet
fermentation of echo.
 
See you smile. Sense your style.
No manufactured glances here.
Just the original, no spin.
 
Catch a scarf in centigrade,
wander pools of being.
We reflect in another’s art.
 
Caught in traffic you break solitude,
don’t need to engage.
Red light here, green there,
we’re all stuck on amber.
 
I admire your pearly cage,
embroidered as I am in my brick one.
I guess we walk the same stage,
you a little higher on your ladder.
 
I peer at stretchmarks,
a little sagging, prepare myself
for my final measurements.
 
We run the list.
Race the pack.
Double back for a rebound.
 
A little late-night reading.
Bed bugs chase the cover light.
I catch one in a jar,
hand it into reception.
 
A little water might suffice
unless you’re drowning in it.
 
Listen to the tick.
The tack.
The walk back.
A hit on the wall is a strike-back.
 
They’ll close you down.
Hit the blacklist.
 
So keep in line.
Stick to your lane.
 
I’d say sit on amber,
admire the flowers,
throw a bone to your dog.
 
We don’t discriminate.
They just want to bury you,
find you lacking.
Pin the blame.
 
If you fall asleep,
they’ll steal the wheel.
Take everything.
And move on.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 2, 2025