The wall is yellowing behind him.
Sepia prints yawn. Thin February
sunlight seeps through dimpled windows.
I fix on the iron cricketer,
WG Grace, raring to bat.
My own lesser bearded companion
starts to speak. The pub snug begins
its slow spin, like old vinyl. He gulps
at his bitter, Adam’s apple yo-yoing.
Dust specks swell and bounce from my burrs –
now tiny chairs, a chest of drawers,
blue teapot, large vase of drooping tulips;
all jig-jigging in a merry-go-round
of nothing. I blink hard, funnel my eyes.
His are nowhere to be found, kicking
about the rough wood floor like lost marbles.
If you have any comments on this poem,
Charlotte Gann would be pleased
to hear them