Frank Newsum
Tidy Hands
He knows before he goes, it must be her.
And still he has to go, and tell them ‘Yes’.
Then when he’s back he doesn’t see the door
he always meant to mend, and even paint,
the bike, as it succumbs to rust, in peace,
the books that stand, and lie, without a word.
People hide discomfort in tidy hands,
observe the growing dark below his eyes,
say they know it’s best if he keeps going.
And still he has to go, and tell them ‘Yes’.
Then when he’s back he doesn’t see the door
he always meant to mend, and even paint,
the bike, as it succumbs to rust, in peace,
the books that stand, and lie, without a word.
People hide discomfort in tidy hands,
observe the growing dark below his eyes,
say they know it’s best if he keeps going.
Page(s) 40
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