December 9, 2016
Poem: 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
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
rooms in which bags are shoved
rooms with locked doors
rooms with dirty floors
rooms where spirits have been crushed
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
rooms in which my story will be told.
We are as transitory as furniture –
occupy a space
until we are replaced
by something else;
thrown onto the street like
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.