Vincent Craine

It was late afternoon,
She sat watching never come to Vincent Craine,
She tries to hold him in her arms
Under the wet weather swollen door…
Never came.
She pressed her knee up
Underneath the wooden table,
As in her midriff
Dread flutters like the threat of love or pain.
There was a bowl of fruit
Shrinking on the table by a rusting spoon.
Never came.
Through piles of wrecked cars,
From the stagnant pools of water,
From the abattoir files
That swarm leech and crawl in Clamour Lane.
She walked towards the door,
Pushed it open, and stood behind Vincent Craine
He leaned back and locked his arms around her
Thin awkward legs.
They watched the sunlight
Slide in cold squares across the walls.