by Chris Buchanan
Poetry, 2021

She felt for the lock in the dark,
coming home late, key sticking in
at the plate,
leaving a mark and a scuff,
click click stuck stuck fuck ugh
– flipped her fist to a strain,
and then
– just –
cold
air through the threshold, through her and then
sense in the skin, not the head.
She got in
good, rest at the bedposts.
Stood on lead pins.
With a tick of the clock she stopped –
she dropped in the dark and got off.