The thick smell of wet feathers
hangs heavy as if from hooks
In the courtyard
cupped in a horseshoe of red-brick buildings
in front of a blue-plastic stool
a bucket a single glove and knife
Its blade sharpened to a coy thin smile
over many years
There are voices on the breeze
and from a line from gutter to red-tiled roof
a child's clothes flap mischievously
among slower drying adult garments
that somberly swing and drip
onto sun-cracked concrete
There's no one to be seen
No comments:
Post a Comment