Mick

1 February 2015

I imagine there is a door facing you,
half open, half closed,
maybe some stranger’s fingerprints around the handle,
those dead leaves heaped by time.
you may have coughed once or twice;
I remember some vague pledge to quit the smokes,
a wry smile and the hours fanning out in languid ripples.
passing laughter in the hall, perhaps,
the ticking clock of it shiny as a needle
falling to the floor in front of you,
the last place the ones who really mean it look.

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