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Interior Brick

You learn the geometry early:

the weight of poured concrete,

the sound of a door slammed three floors up,

the yellow flicker of a stairwell lamp

that never quite stays on.

You pack the bags.

You cross the line,

swap red brick for cedar,

the grey South London sky for suburban Tokyo rain,

or Waterloo’s concrete for the quiet grid of Chiba.

You learn the new words,

bow at the bins,

soften the voice after nine.

But the estate is not a zip code.

It is the way you read a silent room.

It is the eye fixed on the exit door,

the habit of checking your pockets twice,

the reflex to tighten your grip

when the footsteps behind you match your pace.

You can lay down tatami,

you can repaint the walls,

you can step across oceans into quieter air—

but under the modern floorboards,

the foundation is always the same.

The concrete stays inside the chest,

holding the structure together.

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