The Move

A flat forsaken.

The lock swings in my face,

lands on the chest

like a fist.

I press  the call bell

again, again, 

until strange eyes

peer from other doors.

But yours is still. 

I hold my pudding

I’d cooked the night before.

Its warmth now leaks

through my fingers

into the morning chill.

Do I leave it here,

cooling at the threshold?

Do I carry it back

like a foil wrapped wound?

I cradle it close,

and keep circling round- 

and, yes, I do

what I swore I wouldn’t.

I peep through the window.

Inside, the flat

has vanished you.

The walls, ceiling and floor

in a state of undress,

flinch at my gaze,

requesting oblivion. 

I walk away with my pudding.

and keep walking 

until I find a bin

that accepts the slop.

Then I pack and move

to the farthest city

I can name.