Bruce Bamber
Revolving doors
My father could simultaneously enter and leave a room.
He had perfected the act to such an extent
That he sometimes left before he came in -
His absence was finely balanced.
It was possible to detect his movements
By the periodic and rhythmic delivery of
Cold collapsing columns of outside
That spilled across the carpet.
As he revolved at wall level
The room would swing round towards
Or perhaps away in anticipation
Leaving us with uninvited eddies.
The effect was dramatic.
Enter. Centre stage. Curtain call. Exit.
The director in the drafty wings,
Us in the pit waiting for the next encore.
But he would only perform his revolving tricks
Where he felt at home -
On the outside
Except when we were on the outside.
Page(s) 72
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