A Cold Poem

Photo credits: Pixabay

Cold, a cold carrel
Shelves crammed
With creased cookbooks
Squares, chalk lines and wood chisels
Tools for his craft
In too tiny a space.

Cold, a cold cradle
Cast in steel, cold, metallic cold
Rocking the carpenter’s yearling
To sleep after his daily sip
Of crusty cream cheese
Cheeky, chortling
And in his childish rage
Hurls his china cup
To chase imaginary spooks
His world, a blissful place

Cold, a cold corridor
Walls choked
Up with faded carpets chipped
At corners on racks they cling to
Matless and wood chippings for his pillow
The carpenter crumples his beddings
And tucks his son, he cuddles his joy
He can feel his heart pace

Cold, a cold lone chair
Rickety, reminiscent
Braced on the curving wall
Of his shanty
Next to his workbench
Where he hammers timber to shape
A litany of laments, a flood of
Whys?! The unfair world
Failed relationships, crumbling business
Leaking shack, he drowns in tears
Too numb to feel his face

Cold, a cold threshold
Creaks as the door opens
A waft of cold air greets him
The door knob dripping with the frozen night dew
He charges at the cold,
“Coffee, cuddles, candles n’ cardigans”
Once a barista’s song.
Drags out his workbench to hammer his life
Into shape again
“Coffee, cuddles, candles…”
Just how to beat the cold
Squares out, levels up and frames his timber base.





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