Her room was last on the left.
I passed closed doors, a dozen or so,
before I got to hers – except one,
which was open, and light spilled
into the corridor. In a single stride
I crossed and glanced a life.
An old man hunched over a cooker,
a fried egg drooped on his spatula,
the smell of burning toast and cigars.
This life, in the pocket of a building,
has sewn itself into my mind,
and I spend hours picking at the seams.
I do not know if the boy, the small boy
who was sat alone at the table –
ever got his eggs.

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