|Oct/Nov 2009 Poetry Special Feature|
By a cold fire, fringed boots,
navy blazer hung behind the door.
On a shelf, selves stacked like volumes,
pages missing. In a cupboard,
shed skins neatly folded:
the pale, the tanned,
tatooed, toned or flaking.
Could have ended in a feather bed,
or in a gutter, on sawdust boards
or magic carpet. Found on the floor:
an old ring on a neck chain.
Snatching liquid, pinning jelly,
mourners argue, contradict,
remembering different people.