He keeps a black hole in his pocket,
brings it out and shakes it loose
so his daughter can see it.
Seeds of thought and memory
are sucked in one by one.
He spreads his arms to dance
with his wife’s shadow.
It fades in the bright kitchen sun
as synapses twinkle into oblivion.
He sits and watches a stranger
wash the dishes, sort his socks
and underwear from the machine.
The black hole closes like an iris
sucking in the days ahead – door keys,
slippers, the way home, the red
front garden gate, his daughter.
He slipper scuffs round and round
the kitchen, like a teddy bear,
one step two step, puzzled, startled
by the clouds banging on the window,
waiting to close on him.
Outside, rain begins its gentle cascade,
streaking the window as he sees a Spitfire
victory roll and disappear into the grey.
Copyright © John Murphy 2013
John Murphy is a retired lecturer and musician. He has published poems in various journals and magazines, most recently in Every Day Poets and Ink, Sweat and Tears. He is the editor of The Lake, a poetry webzine.