Wearing the outside

in these days, my Grandfather

would have raised

an eyebrow at the lack of formality

even behind the closed

green and yellow door,

brill creamed silver hair, combed

in, neatly presented,

even out of uniform,

he stood tall.

These days

in, are fraught

behind the closed doors

we have shut

tight, stopping short of hammering

wood across the entrance,

confining ourselves

to the odd peek

behind the curtain

as if the small chink

of sunlight will satisfy

our need to understand

what is going on

in our minds.

Wearing the outside in,

It’s becoming waring,

the house smells

of constant bleach

but the outside

will forever now feel

tainted, we can,

we must, it is our duty

to hope, that one day

the outside

in, will be turned

inside out.

Ian D. Hall 2020