After Gillian Jerome
Sing the song of radiators
that whistle like kettles
The song of kettles that boil ‘til they rust
The song of the ancient over burning your martyr fingers
Sing the song of cold mornings
The song of radio voices reaching you through
layers of wool blankets from the army surplus store
as if being shuttled from some dead and distant star
Sing the song of the dirty old man
across the street who takes his dick out
and blasts pan flute music out his window
to make you look
Sing the song
of the fire alarm that rings
every time you turn your light off
The song of the flinching in the dark
Sing the song of being
seduced by your downstairs neighbour
The song of your nipples shining
in his mouth like rubies
Sing the song of falling
on your tail bone
but never spilling a drop
of your gin martini
Sing the song of creaking floors that give you slivers
The song of rooms with too many doors
The song of doors that open onto pipes,
doors for coal, doors for dead servants
Sing the song of insomnia
The song of anxiety attacks
The song of stitches
The song of pulmonary embolisms
Sing the song of early electricity
The song of lights that flicker like ghosts
Of glass fuses glittering
in the electrical panel like chucks of ice
Sing the song of cat snoring in the corner
The song of pine needles found well after Christmas
The song of warmth
The song of loneliness
Dear Landlord,
I am giving my notice.
The kitchen tap is still leaking.
Rest in Peace.
(Source: poetryisdead.ca)
• Poetry • Leah Rae • link •
