As I descend on the escalator, I see
the shapely leg wrapped in
perfectly fitting trousers balanced,
not by its mirror image, but by a crutch.
The second trouser leg is folded
and pinned up to the redundant hip.
The gap between suspended hip and floor
gapes painfully, like that space in the lungs
after the breath has been knocked out
by a blow to the ribcage –
more than the space where a thing is not,
but a vacuum, where that thing ought to be.
A space unoccupied for a moment in time
is barely perceptible, but a vacuum, where
that which has always taken up space
has been sucked out of existence, a void
which cries out to be filled,
is an awful fascination.
This poem finished itself in my head during one of those dizzy spells of desperation to find a pen and paper.