Jack Copyright © Richard Whiting 2011

This is the waiting-room
To which your life has shrunk.
An apprentice-coffin of a space
Filled with silences
And half-meant words,
Excerpts from books unwritten.
The walls close in
Like the crusher at a breaker’s yard
Until a two-syllable diamond
Shines its light in the ebony deep
And you are kissed to animation.

This memory, unleashed like a household pet,
Sends you leaping into the light.
Across the ripened fields
A kite trailing in your stead
The sap of youth in your limbs;
Upsetting drinks at the street party,
Singing all the old songs,
High as a summer lark.

Remembering that old toy
You bought me;
Springing from its box
At the touch of my hand.
The joy of release,
Its painted-on smile,
A leap for freedom.

Loving old clown-faced Jack
Uncoiled his spring,
Rusted the hinges;
Wiped the smile from his face.

At the bell, and back in your box
It’s getting harder to release you.
Every time I close the door
Your darkness deepens,
The lustre leaks from your eyes.

With every step I take,
A childhood ebbs away.