A Letter Poem by Ian Keenan

A month now since you wrote,
And every day but Sunday
Swings upon the letterbox.

The chilled, smoked evenings of Autumn
Bury hands in pockets,
And hunched backs
Head their ways.

The Bingo Hall lights
Hours spent, dead matches,
On red pages ripped
From the Book of Hope,
Rising to the lamp bulbs
Tinged in rainbows
Without end.

My thoughts revolve
About you,
Scanning your face,
Your eyes, your cheek, your chin,
Your cheek, your eyes,
Your cheek, your chin.

The day comes round,
The night has lost its way,
Sliding into corners, gutters,
Under beds,
Beneath lids,
Waiting, leaning sharp
Bone Shoulders into
Eyes

Staring for a slit
of sunshine.