The House
He had not dwelt there long,
he was a tenant
a traveler.
The stone walls carried no sound
to the outside,
but on the inside
every movement and whisper
was transmitted and amplified
through a matrix of fluting's,
gullies, pipes, and vents, etched
into the leaden masonry.
His room was a dry-walled cube.
He lived there quietly,
for even the closing of a drawer
or the tinkle of glass upon glass
seemed clamorous. The sounds
magnified.
He had not seen the other rooms,
the other tenants.
He had heard footsteps,
shuffling movements,
groans,
toilets flushing,
close sotto voce conversations
between lips and ears,
doors slamming.
After only days he moved on,
closing the thick front door
softly behind him.
Into the city street he stepped.
No one looked at him,
no one seemed to see him.
Afraid that he was alone in this
unknown world,
he tuned back to the house
but alas
it was no longer there.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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