homes II

The homes are what we leave behind

our breath remains, as does our use –

arguments hang heavy, old oils crack


across this painted roof. We wake

in ordinary bedsheets, only to fall back


again and more. We keep home still

yet somewhere, old keys rattle


aching to unlock old doors.


A row of brightly coloured houses

top this town, that spreads out slow


to depress suburbs, chuffed too long

with lives drawn in glorious shades. Yet


stripped down as sodium lamplight

throws itself, more reasons to stay

inside, the homes we leave behind.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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