Lockers

All in nice little rows.
Each door perfectly in place,
with keys, each numbered,
beautifully ordered,
a place to put things
you don’t want seen,
don’t want to carry about,
each able to hold just so much,
a safe amount,
to lock away,
until it is time to leave, and
you creep out the door
hoping no one has seen
your secrets heart
or the dark liquid pain
that sometimes leaks
beneath the door.

About this poem.

We stuff stuff. That’s what we do. That’s how we cope. But sooner or later..in one form or another…. it comes out.

Tom