Pullings

Spoons clack clack clacking
on a knee
feet stomping to a tune
whose words he has
forgotten.
Everyone's into it,
and he sits quiet.

He’s suddenly nine years old again,
the all of it being absorbed,
compartmentalized,
stored away, to be eventually
disgarded.

It dares to drag him back,
is met with a heartbeat of
recognition
behind that self-built wall.

Deny all you want, it teases.
Your eyes stay hard
but your toes ...
your toes are tapping underneath
the table.

Dead giveaway,
mon frère.

-- Annie Wyndham

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*Photo by awyn