The door slams behind you,
shrinking you to its size. Air
stale like old biscuits. All you
can think of is how he worked
inside, tinkering on this and that:
fiddling with the smoke detector
to make it ‘better’; toying
with your favourite BMX to improve
its suspension until the paint
peeled like onions. There are no
words left in the air, no bits
of conversation looping for you
to record and replay like a lullaby
he should have sang but didn’t;
forever tinkering in that small shed
which shrunk even him, right down
to the bone, marrow, brain.
About the Poet
Christian Ward is a UK based writer who can be currently found in Culture Matters and Poetry and Places.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.