is the reason i’m afraid to leave the house
beyond this hallway and that closed door
away from my sleeping dog curled,
bathing in the TV glow that I ignore.
if that door shuts behind me
that leaves only me on the other side
alone waiting for instruction,
for company to penetrate the solitude
rattling from one membranous thought
to another—every ricochet a painful shock
despite seeing it coming each time
just like touching the 6V electric wire
as a kid over and over again
holding onto that fence at the edge
of the field, the jolt still surprising
on every round trip, on every outing
just as the loneliness of the world
hits me one more time outside my door.
Sean Chapman is a British writer living in Cornwall beside the capricious Atlantic Ocean and amongst the blur of a blue Whippet and a red fox Labrador. His prolonged and wayward adolescence included working in a Taiwanese astrophysics department, on a Salford mental health ward, on the Liverpool docks, and in a Manchester disability support office, before washing ashore in a Cornish surf shop. Between daydreams of cowboy adventures and surfing escapades he writes poems, dedicated to Maggie, some of which have appeared or are forthcoming in Marble Poetry, Raceme, Squawk Back, Prole, Dreich Magazine, The Pomegranate London, Trouvaille Review and Anti-Heroin Chic. He can be found on Twitter: @seanchapman_1.