Hold the door
Hold the door
momentarily,
wait for the
opportune moment
drawn on air,
one you know,
one sowed in
your yesterdays.
It’s no sweat
that you fail to
remember any of
your lines;
they were never
real anyway.
Wealth has many
rooms:
is it beauty,
how full you are,
how rich, how
powerful?
Are you measured
by what
you build or who
you crush?
We write poems
on boxes
upturned, blown
into the gutter.
Small homes by
the Thames,
scenic view, low
energy costs.
How long can
you live in a tent
while the cold
scolds you?
We set sail on
small dreams,
idle them in
never wishing more.
Did you leave
the door ajar?
They’re coming
to burn all the boxes
today, this
river of cardboard
desirous of
meeting the sky.
Copyright Vickie
Johnstone, December 2, 2020
If you enjoyed this poem, you might like this, which is on a similar theme: Cold Cardboard Sky
Helping the homeless at Christmas. What a gift of £28 could provide - Crisis: https://www.crisis.org.uk/
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