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published in Coffee House Poetry,
No. 8, 2006
and in Piqué, Templar Poetry,
2006
An everyday story of mortgages
I come across the
fields,
with
map, compass and torch,
warm
in my balaclava and gloves.
I
climb the last stile
and
cross the lane
then
onto the track
to
the potter's house.
The
lights are out,
there's
no moon.
She
lives alone.
It's
extremely easy
and
you've paid me well.
I
work the lock,
a
slight click then silence.
I'm
in.
Her
bedroom's round the back,
near
her studio.
I
hear her light snore.
I
don't actually enjoy this bit,
though
I suppose people think I do
but
it's lucrative.
The
pillow is down.
She's
old.
I
barely sweat.
She
looks peaceful.
A
few months later,
you
buy the house.
Of
course, the price came down.
Others
put off
by
the circumstances.
You
move in, as planned.
Your
pottery thrives.
It's
a beautiful house.
I
come across the fields.
Katrina Naomi
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