Excuse my hand

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A term I seldom use

Summer clothes

Packed in tight


A voice declares

"Doors closing"

Faces forward

Such quiet

A hushed phenomena 

What would our ancestors 

make of this crushed


Strangers allowing strangers

thier Intimate space

Expelled air 

The body's breath

A nervous cough suppressed 

A weary sigh

eyes meeting 

eyes avoiding

"Doors opening".


and the memory of

breasts against arms

buttocks pressed into 



We go our separate ways

A bit like love.


Words and image Tommy Carroll 




🌷 (1)

◄ Nowhere to go

Suspect ►


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Tommy Carroll

Tue 28th Nov 2017 23:14

Hi Keith, Ray, Colin and Jon
Thank you all for your posts and I can advise you of my intent to write a massive thriller about containment, strangers and with no point of reference- a bit like my local- Tommy. ;- )

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Sun 26th Nov 2017 18:02

Hey Tommy
I detest lifts although can just about cope with certain ones especially if they're large and see through. Once you're in you're stuck no matter how uncomfortable aren't you?
Great poem though...if I'm ever in one I always feel relieved too when the doors open.

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Colin Hill

Wed 22nd Nov 2017 10:39

you're on a writing roll Tommy - really enjoying your recent posts. Col.

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Tue 21st Nov 2017 21:53

Very enjoyable and revealing of the seeing poet's eye Tommy. I would have to add a dislike of lifts (getting stuck in them mainly).

Remember the lift scene in the Pink Panther with Sellers as a don?


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keith jeffries

Tue 21st Nov 2017 17:26

Tommy, I enjoyed this as it has a lot to say. From a child I have always had a fascination for lifts and the accompanying voice which says Going up or Going down. Seldom are there places where such intimacy is permissable amongst strangers. Well done and thank you. Keith

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