Wednesday, 30 April 2014

28. There is a Moment

There is a moment
when the house is quiet. I say
a moment, but
it is time spilled out like honey
on a countertop
beset by fruit flies.
I step into time and
my feet are sticky—what am I
supposed to do with this?
So many noises
oozing from the street;
so many pockets
for dust to collect in.
I prance through
the empty house
in babydoll lingerie because
the whisky is mine
the cigarettes are mine
there are no eyes left to see me.
Even the windows
are thick with dirt. Perhaps
I will choke
on an old, hard gumball
—there are so many things
to rise in my throat. But the house
is quiet, so the house
and I spoon softly.
There is a moment tonight
when the house is mine.

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