Poetry

Hung Up

I stare from my window.

I stare at that fucking hoola-hoop in their garden.

It’s been there for years, stuck in that tree.

In summer it’s hidden by the leaves and the buds,

But now I can see it, hung on the naked limbs.

It must have been one fun afternoon in July,

When the kids got it home and didn’t want to play with anything else,

But they mastered it and got bored and flung it on those now, icy boughs.

And now I’ve left it too late to go out, but I do anyway,

And the black’s just overtaking the grey.

I walk through the eternal suburb and wear the cold as a mask.

Smokeless chimneys.

The streets are frozen in time and time stops in my head.

The only things alive are the foxes, sniffing through bins.

The evergreens are still in the windless sky.

I’m back and I warm up.

I flick the light off and look for the hoop, a distant light outlines it.

It must have been one fun afternoon when that was new,

When it was summer, now it’s not worth getting down,

Maybe they tried, maybe they can’t.

I feel sorry for the hoop and I giggle cus I’m drunk on wine.

It was made for spinning, now it’s just hung up.

It’s tough though, the wind and the rain and the gales and the

Sleet and the storms and the snow haven’t knocked it down, yet.

So I stare at the eye a little longer, then I go to bed.

Tom Kearns