Act I

(in which a mother returns home without her son)

When you left, you left.

The door open to a terrible draught

and me with just a shift of barbed time.

Because the door was open,

I knocked.

Six times I knocked.

All the passers-by stared,

but no one answered.

Act II

(in which the police return her son’s possessions, to whit: one rope.)

Until the postman came with a parcel.

It was a present from you, but not.

An invitation, of sorts.

I set it on the mantelpiece

and looked at it for seconds, for minutes, for hours, for days, for weeks, for months.

I wanted to be sure I had read it correctly.

In the end, what else could I do?

The clock had long struck twelve.