Carmine Kisses

Fumbles with the key
strung around his neck...
it falls to the ground
as tiny fingers pick it up.
The door groans open.
“Anybody there?” he calls;
does it every time, although
he knows mumbled echoes
will be his only answer.

Takes off his shoes
in the soft-shuttered
shadows of a sullen
afternoon, and how,
very much, he wants
his mother to be home.
Removes his coat – delves
deep inside his pocket...

falls at his feet, a greying
tissue; the one she’d used
to blot her lipstick, before
she’d said, ‘Goodbye’,
that day. The special one –
the one he’d been keeping
with the carmine kiss on,
she’d wiped his cheek with...
and dabbed his tears away.