Flock

In the charity shop I try on a coat
flocked with fake shearling,
shaved-soft almost: fibres
fired onto plastic to fool the wrist.

At home I snap it.
A dust of fur lifts, hangs,
then drifts onto the draining board,
the bulb, the bruised apples.

Kettle clicks. The day adds up
in what catches:
tin-lid nick, salt sting,
the flinch I don’t record.

Above the library we meet
in a room of hot carpet, wet cuffs.
Radiator tick-tick.
A laminated notice by the sink:
PLEASE RINSE MUGS
ringed with old tea.

On the table: a plastic tub
of instant coffee, white sachets,
a stack of paper cups
soft at the rim from thumbs.

No circle. Just a scatter,
knees, bags, paper cups,
space left like manners
and fear.

Someone’s brought finger Nice biscuits,
sugar stamped in little diamonds,
coconut-sweet, too delicate
to dunk.

A man worries a bus ticket
into a thin white curl.
Someone re-ties
the same shoelace, again.
When one voice breaks
we all lean a fraction,
one hinge between us.

Walking home, bypass wind
throws grit at my eyes.
Overhead the birds bunch, loosen,
bunch again,
a dark seam unpicked and re-stitched
by the air.

I zip the coat to my chin.
Static lifts the fine fur, makes it cling,
not one wing: many.
The flock opens, closes,
a mouth.
I don’t look up.

Tim Brookes is a poet and spoken-word writer/performer from West Yorkshire. His work focuses on place, memory and the pressure of systems on the body, mixing lyrical bite with everyday detail. His pamphlet Keep Taking Six from 100 (Yaffle Press) was published in 2023 his first collection The Holy Ordinary will be published in 2026 with Yaffle Press. He hosts Under The Lobby Lights and Soul Shed Spoken Word nights in Wakefield.