The Thin End

 The Thin End

They say it softly, at first,
with the oil-slick assurance of reason.
The Act, they call it,
like a play that's overstayed its welcome,
its curtains faded, its script revised
too many times to mean anything now.

It's not about you, they say, 
not the wheelchair user wheeling
past the uncut curb.
Not the mother, belly full,
aching under a "staff only" sign.
Not the pensioner, hands
fragile as tissue, counting coins
at the till while the queue glares.

It's them, they insist,
the others. The ones
who shift shapes, swap names,
stitch themselves into something new.
Too much fuss, too much space.
Surely, you can see that?

But the blade is already out,
its first stroke clean, deliberate.
The cut barely stings,
not yet.

You, old man, will feel it
when the lift breaks,
and no one comes.
You, woman, swollen with life,
will feel it when the seat is gone,
when the door slams shut.
You, child with the slanted smile,
will feel it in the playground’s whisper, 
not like us, not one of us.

The Act, they say,
was always too heavy,
too much for their hands to hold.
And when it’s gone,
you’ll see what they meant,
how the world will sharpen itself,
how the edges will find you.