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.