◉ 051 | 8m3

A cube.

A four-legged

kiosk.

Two by two

metres.

If that.

Two metres

high.

Eight cubic metres

of air.

Poor insulation

during summers.

Poor insulation

during winters.

The weather

dictates everything

most of the year.

In front of you,

a single

glass

pane.

A tiny

sliding

window

separates you

from the streets.

Behind your back,

a metal door

you lock up

as soon

as you come in.

A rubbish bin

touches your

left leg.

A small

electric thing

touches your

right leg.

A heater

if you dial

the sun.

Just a fan

if you dial

the snowflake.

Sitting on

a not so comfortable

chair

for eight hours

five times a week.

At least

you can smoke.

Your hands

siphoning

so much cash.

Yet nothing stays.

At the end of the day

you slip all the money

into a brown

leather bag,

walk the dark alley

feeling unsafe,

feeding it

into the metal mouth

of the safe.

You aren’t religious,

but you pray

the first of the month

is coming soon.

You count every minute.

From the sky

a big body

falls in front

of your eyes.

You witness

someone

decide

to end it.

Jumping

from the fifth floor

of the building

across from you.

You wipe

the blood

from the tiny

kiosk window.

You wipe

the guts

from the counter

that sticks

out of your cube.

My mum spent

decades working

in one.

I can’t wait to see

your face again.

Love you mum.