Under the Stairs

Under the Stairs

Under the stairs

is a small room

with a long-dead bulb

a yellow pay phone and

in her pocket, 10p.

When classmates pin

her blood-stained knickers to the blackboard

and run away cawing

when things are thinned out

and the bed can’t hold her weight

as it once did

when the 10p drops

and the receiver, like a shell

hums only a long tone

then I will call the number

and tell her, that tho’ she is tired

and rinsed out now

we all have time.

I will show her a starfish

who sits, fat-limbed in a rockpool

and a roving orange octopus

and the wisest of whales

I will tell her

that even the sea is full of loneliness

and many things wait for her.

Through the receiver

I’ll explain that my heart

is rolling back to her

on every wave.