I don’t think I want to live here anymore.
The gravel outside my door is an unfinished sentence.
The creaking floor is heavy with doubt
Piled up like teetering stacks of books –
And throwaway books at that.
No classics here, no Brothers K or Moby D or Remembrance Of.
The stairs always lead to the same places
And those places carry the same old knowledge.
Curled up on this mattress is like wrapping myself in newspaper
Under a bridge or in a cardboard box
Not least for the lack of anyone next to me.
All those dreams are cracked pavement at someone else’s feet
Left behind to bleach and surge with the changing weather.
The old sun glints off the windows of the houses outside my window
And the tree is no shelter but it lets slip
The dogwoods of weariness and lulls me into a stupor that winds down slowly.
The non-tick-tock of a digital clock is a mortal reminder of the one thing
That ties me down here under these lumbering timbers and red bricks.
Sometimes when I smile it slips sadly frowning
Unshared with anything but the warm upholstery of the rocker
That holds me up off the wooden slats of the floor.
The dinner dishes languish on the kitchen counter waiting
For a cleaning I have no inclination to provide
Because I should have left here years ago.