The apartment has been sold
like a cheap whore.
They must pack up.
There is always something disastrously left behind
whenever one embarks on a journey:
Even chairs, cabinets
toys, old clothes, magazines,
the tenderness of living things
one says goodbye to.
Such is life,
as an imaginary noose
is placed around his neck.
The old photos
rummaged from old boxes
make for tragicomic conversation:
O the years…
Did we look like that?
One by one
people fade like ghosts
in sepia tone.
When he gave the inside of the house
one final look
as though it were a complete stranger
he had not known for years –
& noted the stains of the rain on the walls & ceiling,
the dirty tiles, the rundown rooms,
& dust settling on the floor & windows –
He couldn’t help feeling
like a convict
who had been accustomed to handcuffs
& then felt naked when they were unlocked.
How squalidly they had lived.
How cruelly one gets used
to desperation & despair.
Now there is a quiver in his bones
why the revolution rarely happens
among the poor & the downtrodden.