No sound.

No Is that you?
above the TV
turned up too loud.
No feeble getting up
to proffer hand or kiss.

No shuffling
round the assembly-kit
of treasured things
that made a home.

No ghosts
of chirpy whistling days
with windows that breathed,
seasons strolling in for a chat,
grubby knees at open doors,
laughter scampering
up and down the stairs.

No fidgeting between naps,
no turning a blurred gaze
from the incomprehensible street
to cross-examine the other chair.

No sobbing into the night.
Interminable night,
fingering things,
like a dealer,
leaving a smell.


© Nemo 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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This has some great lines. In particular, all of the first four stanzas, in my opinion, are really good. In the fifth, I feel a bit confused, i.e., how the blurred gaze, incomprehensible street work and then who would be not cross-examining who from the chair?

Rachel 🙂


Boy did this hit a nerve with me: beautifully expressed without being overly sentimental.
I would like to nominate this, not because it hit that nerve but because you have caught the atmosphere, the loss of a shared partnership between the house, the past and the love held in those walls perfectly. Sue.

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