Poem: To Let.

To Let

I’ve never really had a home
just a series of rooms I’ve stayed in,
rooms in which thoughts have played in
rooms in which dreams have decayed in

rooms where the hours have passed
rooms where the spells have been cast
rooms where I’ve lost my mind
white rooms
black rooms
rooms where I’ve been left behind

rooms where I’ve toasted the passing of the day
rooms where my empty head can lay
rooms in which I’ve made love
green rooms
blue rooms
rooms in which bags are shoved

rooms with locked doors
rooms with dirty floors
rooms where spirits have been crushed
red rooms
dead rooms
rooms where limits have been pushed

rooms where there’s something missing
rooms where there’s no pot to piss in
rooms where I’ve shivered in the cold
light rooms
dark rooms
rooms in which my story will be told.

We are as transitory as furniture –
gathering dust
we just
occupy a space
until we are replaced
by something else;
thrown onto the street like
a carpet
a table
a chair
or a broken shelf.

© 2008 Joe Hakim

Joe Hakim writes stuff, says stuff, knows nowt… author of ‘No Light Might Escape’, a gritty monologue that charts the turbulence of not having a home.

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