Through
my Window
by
Mick Stringer
a thin face
lacking substance
like an unread photocopy
faded by a bright excess
of sun.
I can control the image
click off the copper table-lamp
let the yellow street light
shift reality back to the
world outside.
I can play with my shadow.
A car swings round the corner
changes gear
illuminates the shrubs and
tulip stems
then snarls away
with an angry flash of brakes.
That was how she went
a stamp, a scornful roar
some wind-blown words
the briefest hesitation
burning cheeks.
If she came back
I'd see her through my window
walking down the street
in well-cut clinging clothes
bright with the colours
of spring.
I'd see her rounded beauty
not this empty face
that matches eye with eye
and mutters soundlessly.
But I won't turn off the
light.
