by Colette Bryce
Here, an aftertaste of traffic taints
the city’s breath, as mornings
yawn and bare this street
like teeth. Here, airplanes leaving
Heathrow scare this house
to trembling; these rooms protect
their space with outstretched walls,
and wait. And evenings fall
like discs in a jukebox, playing
a song called Here, night after night.
Wish you were. Your postcards
land in my hall like meteorites.