She dings the bell, a muffled chime
from the gut of number twenty-nine,
and both of us step off the step,
survey. This place was quite a schlep
from where we parked behind the bar
we’d called ‘our future local.’ Ha!
A couple emerges, whips past, and
a suited lad is left; one hand
grips an iPad, the other keys.
He holds a smile, says ‘This way, please’
and leads us down a mildewed hall.
She mutters ‘I think we’ve seen it all’
but, being English, we poke about.
Two more stand ready as we file out.
Two more stand ready as we file through
the gate of number fifty-two
which backs against the prison. Wire
coils above the back yard, higher
than anything the listing caught
on film somehow, it seems. Abort!
We curse another not-a-chance,
then curse another not-a-chance
at forty-six. And thirty-three.
It’s disappointing. But stick with me:
let’s find a place we want to make
a home in, for each other’s sake,
perhaps. The dice are loaded, cast.
Do both show matching sides, at last?
