Not here

there
are windows where there should be walls and she was right in the
middle of the floor paint splashed about like nobody cared what kind
of a mess of footprints leading directly to each of the doors and
when it’s time to take the photographs you won’t believe how many
little scratches the bookcase wide and full of bricks the staircase
blocked with a dozen upright pianos and flickering lights in the
empty grate the floorboards rotten through the carpets rolled like
carpets rolled like cigarettes I didn’t smoke back then and I knew
she didn’t mind but I don’t believe we’ve met the neighbours
talking into telephones and microphones and empty boxes so this is
where my wallet and passport float away under a low bridge is where
pensioners throw sponges at passing tourists is where the days are
rolled backwards into the river to sparkle and glisten like hooked
fish thrown back before the banks break and the horses bolt and the
horses sweat like other horses sweating there expecting nothing and I
took a cigarette I knew she didn’t mind look I don’t mind she
said but just not here

Jon Kemsley
09 07 19