A day’s report

Bart Wolffe


The horses gallop beneath her fingers. Faster

Than thought, accelerating even when she is so still,

Just gazing at her words. She could be writing of journeys

Or simply opening boxes, perhaps there are colours there

That I cannot read. Instead

I listen to the rhythm of her speechless language

As her swift mind covers unseen distances.

I am still. Overcome by the walls, the rituals of tea,

The small passages of hours that lend to tonight

When I will take to the streets to view the shining

Of shop windows, while on a steel bench I warm myself

With chicken wings and chips, escape the indoor prison

Of necessity, take my flight from the telephone calls

And having had my fill and flung the bones into the bin

Come home again to claim a further indolence

Smoking a cigarette beneath the night sky

And wondering why

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