there is no replacement for mummy’s hammer or its official name.
i saw one of a different style today…
more gutsy, i laid it straight, removed the things for charity.
the boxes all looked very well. no dust.
none that i can see. phillip glass is eighty now, the hammer from 1930
or soon after.
the middle drawer.
pirate gun, a toy from woolworths probably.
they said to put my eye to the sight and pull
no caps, yet the hammer caught my lip. swelling.
badly. water to my eyes.
nearly forgotten yet i find that something still
what is assumed a long forgotten memory,
“A bruise, or “confusion,” appears on the skin due to trauma”
(of an offence) made more serious by attendant circumstances.
time is upon us, as he writes, fine dust from the fire, the old way.
we used to sit the rise and think of this. drive the evening hunting the blue flax fields . found and waded the poppies outside the dyke, worked the red thread. again. danced .
it is a long time since the sun shone in long and low like that, he said. does this mean it is spring now? it is such a pretty room. yellow.
down by where we park is a cement mixer, sometimes.
there are no set ideas in this house upon the repetition of words. we are sorry that you cried.
it has been a good morning so far. with fried eggs on toast and the air. sorry that i was hopeless, even with clues.
there is a mist, a cloth, hanging, while i have seen so much. i forgot to ask about your trip. i had driven the mountain to see you, parked nicely, kissed your cheek, talked about the issues.
it all showed pride and i know
you have seen it too. raddled
face in mirrors, knowing that we
are all much the same. we move
it has been so, so many years. dormant.
hurts and atrocities.
you did not know you said it.
did not remember.
did not mean it.
sixty years later, passed it forward
when you shouted. this is how
things go round.
for which i apologise.
hurts and atrocities.
ceilings, automatic doors. tread carefully the red carpet.
watch. the landscapes quietly.
building where I lost myself, found one worn stair,
walled words on bravery.
we laughed at his phone vibrating the glass table,
automatically. there are no heros here.
just quiet and responsibility.
books bound in leather.