The Stop Sign
As another memory is unexpectedly swept out
of a dusty corner, the chance to rekindle a connection
forged in smooth skin and unbridled laughter
slips by. The greasy deposits of fingerprints
leave more of a trace on a phone’s search history
than in the forgetful pulses
of an analogue heart. Are our rhythms
even compatible from a distance or are they in need
of an unpalatable upgrade? The answer
lies in the lost voice finding itself and wanting to.
It’s certainly a risk and risks are for other people:
I’m sure there’s a video or a blog about it online.
I slop paint onto the tired walls
And doors of the old family house.
No one asked me to –
I just want to feel like I’m doing
Something useful now they’re gone.
Turns out it’s the wrong colour
And I have to do it again.
Alan Kissane works as an English teacher in the Midlands, UK. His poetry has appeared in Dissonance Magazine, Dust Poetry, Neologism, and Emerge Literary Journal amongst others.