Tuesday, November 18, 2014


In a little street, in a small town lies a row of houses
made with red bricks, long hours of studies and nights of laughter
in the houses, little rooms that have  minds of their own
a light goes off somewhere, another goes on
a laught is heard in one house, another sheds a million tears
some asleep, others awake
 this is how the neighborhood lives
I live on the sixth house that rises late and sleeps late and eats late
and is two hours behind the ticking of the clocks and the rush of the universe
I share the house with a thick-haired boy who has music for breakfast
and beer for dinner. He is my neighbor.
Like our house, we never cross paths
I am a late riser, I keep to notebooks at night
and light sleep in the mornings while he keeps to cooking
but early sleep, like a grandfather in a rocking chair.
There's a boy in my house that I do not hear
breathing, or laughing and I do not dream of hearing him crying
maybe the sounds I hear at night are just my own,
weaved from imagination to who could have been walking the planks of my wood and Gibson house
would it be the boy? or a trace of the man he grows up to be?
it might be the man in him I refuse to look into;
there are clues everywhere, the beard he has, the xl t-shirts, flipped out and piled into the wash machine or the smell of man deodorant around the mail box.
Seeing is believing and I need a proof, but I know this man exists and we are bound to meet
once more.  I only see him when there's smoke rings
because certainly one house is burning down

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