The Loss

THE LOSS

The Loss was the downward lurch
of a lift,
the scrunched dried leaf
of a betting-slip, the l-limp
of a lame dog.
The Loss was a riderless horse
at the finishing tape,
a tip
from an enemy, a pain
in the arse, an enema.
The Loss was twist
turning to bust,
one true heart short of a flush,
ashes and dust.
The Loss was another voice
on the other side of the bingo hall,
Echo without Narcissus,
distant, hoarse,
calling House! House!

CAROL ANN DUFFY