The Chime

The chime on the door to his flat in Moseley

had a creaky lever like a knocker to lift,

flicking two notes of metal inside, as in

a musical box. Pretty, like the pretty doormat

not on the inventory, that he snaffled

for the house in King’s Heath where we

moved together, and later I took with me alone

to London – where it stayed till it fell apart,

only bald bristles and a bunch of coloured rags.

The doorchime was fixed to the flat door

for visitors to ring, despite the main bell,

as the front door was often unlocked.

The burglar tried the front bell to check

who was in, and then rang the chime.

We were two men in bed unusually early

after sex around nine in the evening,

so we left it, before he jemmied the door

and entered (he didn’t wipe his feet).

We could see his silhouette in the hallway,

the iron bar in his hand. I had no

presence of mind but I’m glad only one of us

called from the bed in the dark, ‘Who’s there?’

and the man said ‘It’s me,’ running off.