Getting On (a poem)

Getting On (a poem)

I can hear the sounds
of scrapping outside,
the hum of the heater
working harder
than its intended function.
I can’t hear the words
but each one of them
is raised towards the motor,
maybe the mother
of the child I imagine
running in circles
capturing the cold air
like confetti, to collect
and throw around some
other place and time.
I can’t see anything outside
but it doesn’t matter
because I should be getting on,
only I can’t help thinking
I’m glad I don’t need
to head anywhere in particular.


David A. Church

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