Published in Issue 6 of the Crank
www.thecrankmag.com/issue-6
www.thecrankmag.com/issue-6
She went to the kitchen sink
and dropped:
a deadweight.
From the lounge
he heard it, a sound like something and nothing
he’d heard before.
All his life
he’d sped the silver lines
accompanied by hawks in flight,
always satisfied
by the roar, by early mornings,
by night shifts, by solitary cabs,
slipping in the small hours,
sandboxes clogged with dampness.
Sped the silver lines
to where they went but always
they were going to lead here.
Now we keep him company
in this stillest of moments,
no messroom camaraderie,
in turn throwing glances
where the transition from carpet
to linoleum is marked
by a silver chrome trim,
where she lies
beneath a blanket,
silent, still.
and dropped:
a deadweight.
From the lounge
he heard it, a sound like something and nothing
he’d heard before.
All his life
he’d sped the silver lines
accompanied by hawks in flight,
always satisfied
by the roar, by early mornings,
by night shifts, by solitary cabs,
slipping in the small hours,
sandboxes clogged with dampness.
Sped the silver lines
to where they went but always
they were going to lead here.
Now we keep him company
in this stillest of moments,
no messroom camaraderie,
in turn throwing glances
where the transition from carpet
to linoleum is marked
by a silver chrome trim,
where she lies
beneath a blanket,
silent, still.