So, with doors locked
and cupboards vacated
and evening fallen
and images intertwined
in a head full of rain on
a cold Los Angeles day
I proceeded to shift rooms
once more, filling new ones,
leaving empty spaces behind.
I stood for a moment,
lost in thought, staring idly
at the cat on my former doorstep
mewing for catfood or *****
I couldn't tell which, for
I didn't speak her language and
my ghosts were all my own.
I'm sure she would've had me
lend an ear to the tales of
all her personal hauntings,
given half a chance
and a yellow Babel fish.
Last night in Singapore,
packing an overstuffed bag with
gifts and memories,
leaving a few scattered behind
here and there,
along with scraps of discarded poetry and
some yellow-silver moonlight.
Across the hall,
newly vacant room, populated by
a wrinkled Snickers wrapper,
silhouetted against a sky
the colour of oxidized Iron.
Drowning in
a sea of photocopied class notes
and uncertain recollections of
shimmering April heat
in the ramshackle heart of
Northern India. A few stray happinesses
lodged safely in the occasional
corners of luggage not occupied
by books. Long drunken walkways
and fading bird-calls.
So, with new closets loaded
and bookshelves stuffed
and posters re-pasted
with cheap tape
on freshly painted walls
I unlocked the old doors
and checked one more time
for things left behind,
just to be certain.
Two IKEA light-bulbs in a drawer,
and some dust.
That was all.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
This place is full of ghosts
pondering Tralfamadorian time
bouncing red ***** down haunted steps
rehashing old cliches
praying Loud Prayers
peering out of glasses
walking Spanish across parted oceans
and ghost-writing poems
for other kindred spirits.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC