... and, Anny, there's a Dylan song I've just remembered called
something like Seven Days. About the same feeling sort of.
Here's a new draft. I've taken up its cuffs and tightened its belt.
Thanks Tad (and J). Changed the title too, but not happy with it - and
the ending is still up for grabs. Andrew
DETAIL (fourth draft)
The house whispers in
its discontent and keeps me up late
with its incessant whining. Hear?
The trick is to turn off, I suppose,
switch off like the hot element in
the bedside lamp which goes off
when I press the plastic button
at the stem beneath the shade.
I keep wondering at the physics
of the real world, not the metaphoric.
That's life without you, a dozen
details for each event – bringing in
The West Australian, shaking it
free of dew, watering your plants, then
taking off my wet sandals. Detail.
Like, I've never noticed atmospheric
control lights in the refrigerator before.
Beep, it complained, beep beep. Detail
like that. I can tell you now that
you are so far away how many
steps it takes to go from
front door to letterbox. No
need to know that, but I do.
The house rises before me
and clears every room of any life
that might be there to join me
as I rise from this chair, walk out
and say, 'Hello?' Nobody. I read
your itinerary on the fridge again.
2008/5/4 Anny Ballardini <[log in to unmask]>:
> It reminds me of a poem in which the house misses the partner, who left. I
> cannot remember the author, thus cannot be of much help.
>
>
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