Homes III

 

The rooms in which we age, by age

breathe in and out as plastered lungs

stay watching, fly-like, all I do –

my scratchings, my days all spent

 

pacifying foreign girls who somehow came to stay

bringing with them unknown tastes,

new ways of cooking English food.

 

Through she, I try to unwrap minds

coiled tightly in my crackling hands –

this land’s grey shores, the silts, the streets,

a slag of bricks. Electric lights

 

illuminate a slip of thoughts – I

take a payment week on week

to put on hold a sense of home

being nicked and scored, or chiseled down

 

on old marble, or under trees

in a pleasant market town.

‘He loved it here’, they’d say

or they’d knock up a bench

 

and kids could sit and maybe sense

the rooms in which I live,

the homes.

 

Out there, there is a sea

and childishly

 

I hope it never ends

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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

5 responses to “Homes III

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