On Any Given Evening
Corridors with wall sized windows are always places of rummage
Where copper candlesticks glisten and
Wood is polished by dirt particles from strenuous journeys.
Everything emits faint smells of
Brandy and vermouth -
the sweat of great silver haired storytellers.
Glasses flood downwards
staining tabletops and armchair sides:
Musings of grey, wrinkled Gods pondering over
50 year vendettas and century long betrayals.
Hardwood floors creak and crack with the footsteps of ghosts:
Generals, grandmothers, and cousins in love.
Luminous forms of dust reveal nothing and everything,
Cycling unto itself over and over again.
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