Life in the last hour of new decay,
punctuated by the squeal of trolley wheels
as the memories wear insect-wing thin
and the white-coats roll you away.
And grit blows in the wind
and scatters fragments of you
all over the sprawl of this city.
I climbed creaking stairs and collapsed in a chair.
My wife has left me,
there's nobody home,
I am very much alone.
The clock ticks loud in the still air of solitude.
A phone call seems a good idea
but there's no phone.
Something is different...
things have changed round here...?
Sure...we had our differences...
and we let the small things slip.
Like the cat and it's collection
of small dead animals
stuffed behind the dresser.
Or the loose timbers that creaked
as the house settled at night,
and the walls trembled like my stomach,
and the dog twitched in it's sleep, dreaming.
And the phone is very much not here at all,
I am searching blindly.
Why do the Chinese have this desire
to miniaturize everything?
Even their arguments are freeze-dried and sanitised
and hurt like boredom.
I really should phone my family.
Room search, from one to another.
To a soundtrack of various lonely television transmissions.
Will my light bulbs all fade
in honour of the day
that we scattered your ashes early?
Just another cloud of dust,
joined with the wind,
twisting and swirling.
Random thoughts whilst conducting organised search, multi-tasking the man way!
And then I found the phone.
On the floor in her room,
we have separate rooms, that's the stage we are at.
But it was just so very different,
and totally complicated,
with various start-up options,
and it just got a bit too crucial at one point,
and that's when I really lost it...I think ?
And all I remember is these little bits
running through my fingers,
and the shock of what I had done
made me blink.
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