By Amy B Moreno
Why did you move here?
What brought you to the area?
The manageable commute?
The sweet-scented artisan pastry shop?
The ghost-sign pub with locally-brewed beers?
The events of shared music
and open-armed spaces
and cheering circus tent colours?
Now spoiled and rotten; forgotten fruit
An absentminded mug clasped in your hands, or mine
Your resentful, full kitchen sink, or mine
Your second-hand patch of mossy slabs, or mine
We stitch together our fraying borders
Criss-crossed with little bird footprints we notice now
everything is crushed inside stonework shells
Which take tight breaths beside
The unravelling ribbon of shuttered doorways
Lined with tin cars, made of old pram wheels, who have forgotten how to drive
Your place, or mine?