Routine Set Excursion
Dancing over ancient switch plates
A garage door rises. Small metallic complain in its rusting hinge. By its entrance, A-frame legs open wide, put in place. Its front, carries chalked outline sketch. Written wisdom that greets — you, next.
“The place in which I fit will not exist until I make it.”
~ James Baldwin
Takes a moment for eyes to adjust the darkness. To trace wispy contours concealed. Tight line length. Well known curves. Familiar steps rove round the shadows. Routine set excursion, before the sun has chance to fully smile.
Dripping from high ceilings. Curtains of lush fernery brush gently when parted. Hand reaching, shifting clay pottery. Life filled in with colour.
Pull back a cover, way back there. Disturbs dust-motes. They now hover listless in flamed slivers. Move this cover here. All, a moving gear of intimate familiarity that winds. Click. Clack. Finger tip that flicks. Dances over ancient switch plates.
Riveted to the tableau on display,
stripping the dark cloth of night.
Making love to our vigilance.
Unveiling. Revealing.
Cubbyholes, full to brim.
Get lost inside
narrow aisles
of hardback covers.
Cradled by
words
and numbers,
their letters
carved in
pencilled scars.
Easy marks,
indelible lines
scribbled to time
that…
swallows
you whole.
Caught by arousal’s intimate tussle —
we are voyeurs, each one of us.
Mesmerised.
