Close your eyes.
Women’s black boots disappear through lashes’ shade and then
he smell of old fabric lingers with sweaty clothes
The air moves around us in dirty thrusts; dusty, dirty
A book turns its pages, crinkly
Solid pages, full of words.
A heavy coated arm adjusts
A stray foot gingerly winds its way around the a new position, around the obstacles of closeness
Throats clear, grumbling
My own smell rings around my head and soaks into the walls and the floor
The mechanical voice of the world relieves