by Gavan Duffy
I filled a page describing
it all to myself.
The trip there on the bus,
the crowd of people packed together,
desperate not to touch.
An upside down umbrella
gathering rain in her garden.
The long wait after we knocked,
her letterbox gagged with a towel.
Feeling her lips on my face,
hearing the tiny knots in her voice.
Seeing the squint of her eyes
while she read her card.
How she didnít open her gift
but placed it with both hands
on the sideboard, as if it were
going on sale.
The breakable clink of the cups
the soggy texture of the biscuits.
An empty plate in her fridge,
like a cold sweaty moon.
The way she turned to watch the phone
while it rang,
his somber rage while he watched
her do it.
How he aimed his shadow
onto the glass of the photograph,
showed me himself as a child.
The picture she lifted next.
Her in a white dress.
Him in a suit, all those years she said,
she with him stuck together
Like two words that rhymed.
Copyright © 2013 by Gavan Duffy.