Kids Once Carried Tin Soldiers in Their Pockets…
Did you know that, he says, as he cleans his hands,
his nails one at a time. He stares out the window
where moments before children with satchels
strapped to their backs walked by. They’re like
small tortoises in no hurry to return to school.
Would you turn on the lights, love, he says,
as if to confirm time has tilted against us all.
From his point of view autumn is winter.
I’m in love with this man whose hands freeze
when he shovels snow, whose eyes water in
the wind, who can’t resist salted liquorice,
who brings me broken roses from the garden,
as if I can fix them or make them well again.
… and I say, our youngest used to do that,
carry his toy soldiers in his pocket.
The title is the first line from the poem Zebra by C. Williams. Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash. Prompted by Twiglets #242 Those Clean Hands. Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021