October, Wednesday morning,
just before eleven o’clock.
Two white envelopes on the mat.
A half-moon of blue sky
through the window over the door.
The taxi hooting its horn twice.
The obligatory word window
repeats itself, a silent burping.
Window: open, broken glass,
into the soul. It’s time.
If there is a window, there must
be someone watching, waving.
Waving, not drowning. No,
that was someone else.
Waiting, not watching, window.
There would be ham sandwiches,
square slices resting on thin white
and people would sign their name,
then fly home through the open window,
taking their own words with them.
My brief bio: Fokkina McDonnell’s poems have been widely anthologised, published online and in magazines. Her debut collection Another life was published by Oversteps Books (2016) and Indigo Dreams have just published her second collection Nothing serious, nothing dangerous. Fokkina blogs at www.acaciapubublications.co.uk