Poetry

Issue #9

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