Poetry

Three Corners of China

The outer shell circled with Windolene
as if he’s waving to me,
pasted newspaper pages read of home.
His mate swings the door like bopping with a girl,
then planes curls off the wooden frame, falling
like a child’s ringlets from a barber’s chair.
Some time away of lighting the gas yet;       
but he is reckoning in five year blocks,
living above rising scents of ginger.
Dreams of clicking indicator to cul-de-sac,
a key-ring for his unborn son.

Karl Riordan