What He’s Bringing In (a poem)

I was too tired to write the other night
So I returned later to the moment
To record all the sights in the light
In the spare room on the first floor
Where clutter draws my eyes to outside
And the same shaped signs of life as a door
Into rural patches darkened by age
That store more unwanted thoughts
With unused things only right for the page.

There’s nothing out there for him, for anyone
I already caught his food in-store, served a bowl
It’s a recipe that keeps him coming back
And squashes natural instincts to roam free
Still I check and call him from the front steps
As a man next door shouts at his kids
It’s been awhile since I’ve wanted to leave
To occupy a new space, forget the past
Even to make a noise like a fuss in a garden
Against a wall a ball continues to bash
Until the window opens with a smash
And the stern words that halt further action
I just may never know what he’s bringing in
He never says, only shows the results
The skin he’s left on the street and grass
Where local lads’ stomps echo through the air.

Now I reflect I was wrong to disagree with her
To take matters as too personal or literal
And leave myself vulnerable to self-harm
She is right to take hold of me, share views
So I do not lose my future gains before born
Even travelled to start line and worried
That it was the incorrect mode or method
All my work worthless and pointing away
To where fresh, crisp wind never seems to change.

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