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That arts & crafts still for sale,
shutters all always shut,
is the safest place to park.
Blaming the market, they shipped north.
Who’d have thought a year
would find me stalking our old selves
while neighbors wheel their trash
to the sidewalk for the morning
and try to memorize the reg
of the navy wagon back again?
Mostly I mark papers
by light run off the alternator.
Though lately I’ve been praying, lady,
that whatever kingdom come there is
is a street we owned a place on
where the life we meant to love
and ran screaming from mid-stream
completes itself without us
and it’s evening over and over again.
A piece of Plantation House chandelier
is dismantling the last bar of sun
into bit and bobs of iris.
In the yard each lost wish still chimes
even though there’s no wind.
There is a barometer stalled on ‘Fair’,
a slow air remastered on the squeezebox.
The sea, gone miles out of its way, is there
as a screensaver reflected in the screendoor.
And our heirs are there in the ping-pong
and hip-hop of the garage’s murk.
And I, in some shape or form,
am there as well. And you are there.
By Conor O'Callaghan