The warmth of a hand dryer provides solace,
unheard of perhaps but slipping
into solitary quietude seems only possible
when staring at chipped, lack lustre white
paint with dirty green peeping through.
Pushing human life away,
repressing, mid eventful day
feet firmly planted in the ground,
Sure, they’re clunky and awkward,
been visited many times before
but they have a way of making you
You’re the only one in its mirrored globe
distorted yet perfectly reflected,
passers by (colleagues or strangers)
merge into the cubicle doors and paint
just linoleum screeching.
There’s relief in the warmth
four walls would find unbearable
warmth a grey t-shirt would reject.
No one waits for a dryer, if occupied
they just leave.
Relinquishing the minute of comfort
blown air can incase you within
like womb or wing.
And so, I conquer the solace
provided by the tin box.
Feet firmly planted, linoleum sticking
I sink into solitary quietude
releasing my worried soul into the