All the ideas, stuffed
in the cabinet, on the far right,
left a bit, opposite,
the cupboard marked
Feelings; locked. The key hangs
on a hook, thats screwed
into the press, labelled faintly with
failings; the one door that never
Quite closes. The big chest, success
sits yawning wide under it, waits
without feelings, failing to reach
for the cabinet window, frosted
Glass closet concealing the contents,
emptiness prominent, labelled with
promises, not to be kept, past a
date, long gone by.
Jim Barrass
