For Sale
We are an abandoned house.
Walls of wood slowly stripped
dried bark fading on the floor.
For Sale sign creaking
with the wind’s song.
The two of us, outside.
Feet pressing on wet leaves.
Selling ourselves with smiles
that could’ve been widened
with Sellotape, for all we care.
Both of us sleeping sound
in separate rooms.
Visited in our dreams
by buyers, all who leave
(us) disappointed.
Us eating our own hearts
at breakfast, pushing
an awful, mushed silence
around a pool of plate.
Never once knocking or entering
the other’s door, that themselves
are stubborn fronts for sad,
empty rotting rooms.
Always waiting quietly
for the phone to shout.
For the front door to clack.
For the perfect buyer to arrive.
Sam Kolinski lives in Glasgow, Scotland. He works as a freelance journalist and is wholly indebted to Sam Willetts’ first collection New Light for the Old Dark. Currently gathering material for his first chapbook, Sam’s poems have recently appeared in The Glad Rag and The Treacle Well.