Self-storage & Anniversary
by Derek Adams
[ poetry - february 05 ]
Self-storage
I have rented a cold store
for my ex-lovers,
its fluorescent lights
cast a bright gloom
over metal racks,
pale skin, white frost
on lashes, eyebrows, hair
and blue lips
that whisper ghosts.
Swinging on meat hooks,
stiff, uninviting reminders
of the white hot moment.
Anniversary
Twenty-three years to the day, since we met,
I recall it clearly; your white blouse, just one
button too many undone,
no tie, that let's have some fun look in your eye,
those small fair hairs on your thigh,
the grown up way you took the proffered cigarette.
You'd be, what, nearly thirty-seven now and
if things had been different, I wonder
but it is far too late for regret.
Almost every year I make a pilgrimage
back to this spot, it's not so easy now
that I've moved away, and at my age
I'm not so nimble as I used to be
Here is a rose for you Rose, where
I came with you once, then left alone,
such a pretty, pretty face; so much nicer than
that school photo, the one they still occasionally
print in the newspapers or show on TV.
