scooters, vacation, fall

There's something in rushing out early
with your hair wet and your make up off,
dressed in the clothes you spent the night in.

Something in the way the creases concertina
round your joints, the folds of your favourite
positions. Something
in the smell of sweat gone sour and warm, of dirt
and home, the way they crumple
like brown leaves, brittled
by their winter between doors
on the bottom of a boot
creased tight in the corner of a checkered floor,
as you sweep out into the spring.

Open the windows.
Let the light rush in.

*

I will probably edit this later, and probably badger people as to whether "light" or "fools" works better in the last line. Until then, yay! Something new!