With the pin in its roof and the
snap of its closure the smell of
dust and dreams stumble inside.
I’ve no idea where it got to nor
the gifts it stole away. Its brittle
shape broke me while hoarding
endlessly that flavour, bold and
haunting and that’s always stayed
with me. Maybe one day I’ll find
it propped in a cupboard under
some stairs or beneath the floorboards
with the chalk, splinters and rat hairs.
The squeak of its awakening, like
a haunted door, would still me;
allow a rest from these long years