By Gareth Culshaw
The fridges hurt him the most.
When he opened the door and cold
stuck to him like words from a bully
he felt his tongue go cold and his
joints shimmy behind tendons.
Tuna, salmon, mackerel, sardines,
kept in boxes or plastic gave colour,
words, numbers to the coldness.
He placed his hands inside,
felt arthritis bristle. He had
bills to pay and a son to bring up.
The fridges hummed a monotone
that didn’t change unless the door
was left open too long. He pulled
down his white hat and thudded
the floor with thick rubber soles.
The shift was as long as he wanted
it to be. His hands cramped up,
and he danced his fingers as if he
was playing the piano. The cold painted
itself onto his skin told him this is what
will happen when he goes six feet under.
My first collection, ‘The Miner’ available now at: www.gculshaw.co.uk
Twitter – https://twitter.com/CulshawPoetry
YouTube Channel – Gareth Culshaw Poetry