stylus on heart

Jacqueline walked out and broke my vibe,

then slipped away heavy with coats and silver coins.

She stripped berries from thorny briars in frozen fields,

and with bruised knuckles patched her worn shawl.

Now old needles drag

with a backdrop of sputtering grease and tea,

and the tiny glass horse we bought at the shop,

has tilted sideways then gone cracked.

I have placed a heavy coin on its cracked base for counterweight.

Our world has re-settled itself to colder air,

it only speaks to me now,

and the bedroom shelves

keep a fortress of Ibuprofen in massive foil sheets,

which I take for blankets.

Late evenings I wander to the square,

and lean against a driver's shelter by the station,

watching the crowd of commuters dissolve into trains.

Heavy iron gates swing to lock out stray dogs and beggars,

with a closing ritual of slamming heavy doors on stone.