Dark Green House

Your phone still works. All I have to do

is dial your old number and I’ll hear your voice

sounding almost like yourself.

Perhaps you are not feeling well?

I am walking in a part of London

unknown to me but for the fact you live here,

and always have done – an alleyway

I never knew was there. Now here’s the

tall house at the corner of the street,

waiting, a faint glow at the window

dark as a beetle’s wing. There’s something

the matter with the door, its heavy, rusty

hinge won’t give way. How will I explain

why I haven’t been to see you all these years?