A worn red carpet, ill-fitting, covered
the long floor ending outside the back room
of my great-granny’s house. It had a bump.
To step over that claret carbuncle,
to push into that cavern, cluttered, cool,
would be to undo time’s forgetfulness.
the long floor ending outside the back room
of my great-granny’s house. It had a bump.
To step over that claret carbuncle,
to push into that cavern, cluttered, cool,
would be to undo time’s forgetfulness.
I would see broken, oily crayons there
in happy childhood hours of peaceful play
by the piano stool. I would press keys—
no skill— and my feet could reach pedals, now,
though I still would not know their purposes.
in happy childhood hours of peaceful play
by the piano stool. I would press keys—
no skill— and my feet could reach pedals, now,
though I still would not know their purposes.
The kitchen flooring was blue and prickly.
A speckled window. Both sky and scene changed.
In my small palm she pressed a round Pound coin
to be spent on sweets after racing bikes
with friends in wet autumns where wheel spokes spat.
A speckled window. Both sky and scene changed.
In my small palm she pressed a round Pound coin
to be spent on sweets after racing bikes
with friends in wet autumns where wheel spokes spat.
I am no longer the then-little boy
who played and drew with snapped, blunted crayons,
who pushed, without practice, piano keys,
who shyly tugged at her cardigan hem
and asked persistently to hear her play.
I am today one who would wish greatly
he could hear her voice, warm and welcoming.
who played and drew with snapped, blunted crayons,
who pushed, without practice, piano keys,
who shyly tugged at her cardigan hem
and asked persistently to hear her play.
I am today one who would wish greatly
he could hear her voice, warm and welcoming.
I wish that she could sing happy birthday
to me down the landline just one last time.
to me down the landline just one last time.
