Sunday, May 17, 2009

Prised

It’s just the chip in the paint on the cast iron radiator;
not its age or the way that its weight
is, still, so firmly anchored to the wall;
not the fact that when I last curled my
hand around this brass flange I was eighteen
or that since then have no idea how many
layers of paint have added to its thick-set gloss:
Its just the chip in the paint that my nail
has just prised away.

We didn’t get out of the car that day
not right away. Then,
two halves in a mirror-dance,
we opened the doors and walked away.
I was eighteen. And since then have no idea
how many doors have closed or how many
might have opened had we not got out of the car
and just walked away.

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