Friday, June 22, 2012

The Getaway by JOHN MOLE

On the bed 
a suitcase empty 
but still open.

The room key's 
ball and chain. 
Your nightdress.

His passport 
handed back 
too quickly at the desk.

Look at him 
and tell me 
do you recognise this man? 

Your heart is beating 
behind bars. 
The blinds are down.

That hammering 
is neither wind nor rain 
but somebody wants in.

He waits outside. 
A fine mist 
shrouds his face.

You call him by a name 
already lost 
so who is it that comes? 

Between the pillow 
and his head 
an understanding.

Between the mattress 
and your thigh 
a sheet of ice.

Between his nakedness 
and body heat 
an absence.

Between your hunger 
and his appetite 
a shadow line. 

The car you planned 
to leave in 
is unregistered.

Its ignition's tick 
a flint 
that will not catch.

The road ahead 
has narrowed 
to a vanishing perspective.

The way you came
without him 
takes you home.

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