The Victory Of Buckets And Doors
My childhood, lopsided, crumbs, trouble, clear-sighted and leaning up
against the Sellotape the apples back on while they were ripe, sticking to
our story every time.
We stood there, same mischief, same background, shame-chagrin with hands
behind our backs and our eyes faced down. We'd celebrate the victory of
buckets and doors, smiling all the way out the front door.
How I longed to hold her hand, how I longed to touch her face, how I longed
to hear a sound, come from that phone, from far across the town.
That night when all went to hell I thought we'd never see the thorns pulled
out of our poor old toes. We'd imitate the noises that we thought we should
make, howling at the wind and our mistakes.
How I longed to touch her hand, how I longed to see her face, how i longed
to hear a sound, come from that voice, from far across the land.