[Poem] Tarmac


I knock and hear frantic scrambles
from a room inside, the lock
titters and the door opens
to a man in a dirty t-shirt and jeans,
hands thick with oil,
face thick with sweat.

He grins, offers me a hand
but takes it back, I smile,
tell him my name and ask
if I can come inside.
He shakes his head,
‘s a mess,’ he says.

I tell him who I am and how
his mobile is dead, how his
house phone wasn’t answered
and that there’s been
an accident. He pauses, pulls
the door tight behind him.

I take off my hat and hold
it gently in my hands
and explain how
it had happened, and where
and when and watch
his large arms shudder,

His shirt fold at the middle,
his head drop, revealing
a bald spot hiding in a nest
of hair. I watch his chest
fill with a sigh that never comes
as he lifts himself to me.

Eyes red lightning.
Bones crippled with thunder.
Arms a sand-bag sag of muscle.
Legs lost on the carpet
and oiled hands exploring
holds in the door frame.

I stutter; suddenly feeling
the weight of my words
creep along my lips and pause
on the tip, dripping red
with rust, the smell of hot
metal filled my lungs.

I feel for the frame
and see beyond
the mans bent shape
the kitchen; a bicycle on the table
and a vase of fresh flowers.
Silhouettes against the sun.

© Hayden Westfield-Bell, 2013


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s