Evening

the drone of the heating
mumbles “all’s well”
a mantra for peace

ghostly shadows
loom on the walls
sharp edges sleep

a line reaches
its mark on a gauge
the drone sighs into silence

it’s a windless night
a cat watches close
through the window

his book snaps shut
an incandescent glow
by a bed pops off

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Marks

Tumbleweeds roll,
a dusty screen door
screams in the dusk,
a line of rust marks
the horizon.

A red gingham oilcloth
gaily covers a kitchen table,
his mother’s favourite,
rosemary in a jar
gives a homely touch,
he stands by the sink
peeling potatoes,
a half drunk beer
on the draining board,
a question mark
furrows his brow
at the screech,
his reverie broken.

She enters,
with a comma
on each cheek,
framing his heart.