I bomb it
back down the garden
into the shed,
grab my bag
and
go
go
go.
I’m scrambling to get away
because I can’t stay.
But.
Toffee?
A voice as quiet as pencil on paper.
The fencing won’t let me through
no matter how hard I push,
pull,
and then
the voice again –
louder, possibly Irish.
Come back for the love of Christ!
Toffee!
The woman holds up one hand
like a child in a classroom.
Toffee? she repeats for the third time,
an invitation, probably,
to come inside and eat something sweet.
Desperation spikes her tone.
And I know that feeling –
pleading with someone not to flee.
So.