He wrote such lovely
stories,
the landlady
was rattling off
the broken words
scattering the dried leaves
of explanation
here, a broken chair
in the corner,
a guitar pick on the
window sill
newspaper in the sink
the scabs of potato peels
archaically holding court
in the tiny kitchen.
There is an alcove in the wall
an arabesque point
to a pragmatic rectangle
at its apex
where phones used to hide their
dials and wires, a slender
shelf where the phonebook
used to rest,
"let your fingers do the walking"
here was a
quiet life,
delicate and rustling away
contented in the
dark,
hovering over old news
we can clean out everything, and
you can use the wifi
contemplating the old junk and
i suddenly want her to leave
me to it
i am left impecunious
by her rapacious rent and sundries
am left in awe of the
quiet life that has left
this container
the wind on the lace
the devil must have
hated him,
for God loved him so
- Duarte Gaivota
- Duarte Gaivota
