by Sarah Fitzgerald
Shoes exactly two feet apart
His breath becoming deeper,
His eyes focusing on nothing
But the task at hand.
With determination and tenacity
He held the little piece of plastic
In a pincer grip.
He bit his lip, channelling his concentration,
Ignoring the voices of the past
Swirling around him, whispering in eerie voices
Useless, failure, imbecile, waste of space.
He ignored his leg, which was jumping violently,
Trying to distract him.
His fringe was wet from the sweat of effort,
The pursuit of success. He could not fail.
Another deep breath, and with confidence and inner belief
Pushed the button
Through the hole.