MASKING TAPE'S A MUST
Malcolm tapes the things he draws, fixes them
to wall and floor. It's all very well when it's Ruth
he's watching, captive on her chair, or the bricks
outside the window; never a problem with buildings
or bridges or scissors left to dent the paint-pocked
bench. Light, on the other hand, is a different story.
Always on the move, it's just beyond his reach;
a sly yellow pelt sidling in through fractured glass,
rolling wantonly across the tongue-and-groove
floor, slipping into shadow cracks, behind the bent
old door. And no, he can't tape wind and rain.
Or clouds. They won't hold still - there's no use trying
to mark out where they've been or where they might
be heading. He has no choice but to pocket his tape
and let them go. Leaving his room at the end of the day
is like leaving a crime scene. "I kind of like that,"
says Malcolm and shrugs as he does.