That Tune You Whistle

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

I close my eyes, but imagination is worse than reality.
So, I open them to see knuckles clenched tightly,
before crumbling into dust.

The need to overcome my grief
is to walk through adjoining doors.
I hear that tune you always whistle coming from our home,
and I forget what fear is and cartwheel inside.

There is no way through.
I flit around the aisles of spectators,
relatives, and some unknowns.
No one pays attention, picks me up,
or holds me aloft.

Whistle, whistle.
Whistle.
That tune you whistle coming from inside.

Why do people still gawp and gaze
without reaction, through tangled eyelashes
and desert skin?
I soon realise what I am hearing… only I am hearing.

It is you calling me in from the outside,
as they put you to bed one last time.

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