My bucket doesn’t have a list and it’s never been kicked

Even on the really bad days when the mocking shine of its metal body has tempted my foot to make contact, something about this ambivalence carrier makes me take a beat and reconsider.

Its smaller at the bottom and larger round the rim proportions hint at potential expansion. If it’s half empty, surely that means there’s room for it to be half full, or more. As all good therapists and some not so good ones will tell you, it’s entirely possible for two opposites to be true at the same time.

On days when hot headed emotions take charge and logic is still tucked up in bed with reason, I must admit I’ve imagined how satisfying the clank of boot on metal would be as I kick it into oblivion. When the world tilts this way, what’s inside becomes transparent like water. So easy to upset. So easy to spill.

My mind plays the role of trickster on these days. It tells me to look in my bucket. It tells me it’s empty. See, there’s nothing there, it says. But if I’m quiet and still and view my bucket from a slightly different angle, I’m able to see myself looking back and the blue sky behind me, that hasn’t fallen in. My bucket is nearly full to the brim.

Tracey Pearson is a poet and flash fiction writer from Newcastle upon Tyne. Her writing has appeared online, in print anthologies and poetry magazines, including Poetry Wales. Tracey’s flash fiction was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in 2023