Maurice Devitt

Keeping a Secret

Walking home from school one day
you told me a story,
eyes dark with regret,
as you begged me not to tell.
It hovered for years
at the forefront of my mind,
even pushing itself to the brink
of revelation, when a casual
conversation with friends
appeared to echo your experience.
Though we drifted apart,
I kept my promise.
Now, when I hear from others
what happened to them,
I wonder how you are
and whether I did the right thing

Coming Home

One day the key doesn’t turn in the lock
and he wonders if he has done something wrong,
if there is something different
about his approach: the way he inserted
the key, the way he turned it
with that customary wiggle, assuming
it would open. He tries again,
confidence draining with each attempt,
and all the little assumptions
built into his process seem shaky.
The nerves in his fingers, so used to success,
now expect failure. Could it be the wrong key?
He pats his pockets — finds nothing
but a comb and a train ticket.
Stands in silence on the doorstep,
as though waiting for someone to open the door.
There should be no one home, yet he listens
for the slightest tremble of sound
and, when he calls to a neighbour to borrow a spare,
a stranger answers — explains
how nobody has lived there for years.