I ran from Ivan Allen
a monster of a boy
more a man.
I imagined him Russian
with a knowledge of tractors
and a black belt in everything.
He terrorised his teachers,
he darkened all corridors, and he
loomed like all preachers do.
So I moved through the half-built walls,
bare brick and scaffolding bones,
the air thick with cut wood and Ivan Allen ghosts.
A rust-bitten mixer growled – its drum still warm
I climbed inside, to hide and to see
how the world spins differently…
Out and dizzy I sat above
a deep concrete pit,
pools of rainwater laced with oil.
I dropped stones, watched the ripples
spread out like something waking,
My fear, our toil
I found a crowbar—
its heft a thrill in my palm.
I prised at doorframes,
tore them clear,
and shouted my name
into the void
to revel in the echo,
no one hears…
Later, I walked home,
pockets rattling with
bent screws
and the stolen heart
of a padlock.
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