His keys jitter at the lock
tinkling in the streetlight from Cremerplein
the chalk door submits to his push—anticipation
is a staircase toppling backward narrow and sullen
with a silent hand he gestures for me to lead—
a dingy cotton cord threaded through steel eyes
to the inner banister pulls me higher—like lust
my mind leaps ahead through simple passions
to our pantomime at the top of the stairs
I’m thinking I have overplayed my part, but then—
our good-bye kisses squandered like a child’s allowance—
he takes my elbow to turn me toward his mouth for another
he tugs the latch cord—the door springs open
the plummet of the stairs is flooded with sunlight and sudden loss
.
David Quintavalle
Picture Rupert Loydell
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