Sofa-surfing at loose-end parties

after tired feet touch tarmac

and poverty is a canvas of hazard.


A cousin in some pot-luck suburb

where cork sags under adverts.

At last a pokey crumbling room:

cabinet doors hang open in defiance,

insect agendas behind furniture

glued tight by the gunge of years.


New curtains and light bulbs

from alien shops as dusk descends.

A bell tower sends its shadow

in the moonlight's shifting angles;

backyard dogs yelp endlessly.


You contemplate the dappled moon,

its halogen face close enough to kiss.

A merchandise trundle over wood

alerts you to the unsettled night:

this house of strangers far from home

with fading stories in each heart.


Poetry Salzburg Review 35, Editor Wolfgang Gortschacher







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