Written at the sushi train during lunch. Then sent on its own train journey as I quickly left the restaurant. Maybe someone will pick it up?
Little pieces of tender meat are carried by the train. Round and round they go, judged on looks alone. Thousands of nervous thoughts try to spill from their bodies like grains of sand. Their skin is delicate like thin sheets of seaweed. Looking out from its transparent cage, one waits for its chance. It does not want to go the way its friends will. As the plastic cloche is lifted and hungry eyes peer in, it rolls out onto the tracks. Feeling the wind ruffle its pickled ginger, it is free at last. It knows the feeling won’t endure, but this moment is all it needs.
freyawrightbrough 