plastic animals

a plastic toucan tippled forward
banging its head on the desk

my hair no longer grew
just hung around my shoulders
fraying at the edges like the
dusty hem of an old dress
torn fern leaves beneath a
low-slung sun

i had to
squint
to see behind it

animals nosed their way through
thickets with tatty fur
staining pelts not realising
we were watching
but we were watching

in shadows stained and
tippling light
feathered arms
in the leafy shade
as the animals grew

arms and legs
and pressed on
maraca hearts
singing
songs we could
not sing along to

but we longed to sing
had to keep control

of course

the plastic toucan tippled forward
banging its head on the desk

Elinor is a recent philosophy graduate hailing from the cold and rainy North of England. She now works in London as a media analyst and lives in a tiny flat with two ghost housemates and a flourishing mould culture. She writes obsessively and has had short stories published in a number of journals and publications, including Cubed B Press, Printed Words and Creative Writing Ink.