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Rooming with the Young
We dwelt together,
one hand on a door handle.
Keeping rooms --- a semi-settled living,
parents still squatting in our heads,
rent due spaces,
red buses passing below or above,
according to what level we rose to.
Domestic wreckage evacuated,
a small venerable van stuffed to the gills,
and we with our books
bundled up in raffia rafts,
cats tucked under shawls or coats,
escaping loudly on red bumpy buses.
It is the little things that haunt:
a florescent green plastic handbag,
maroon stockings
draped over a lava lamp,
fluffy toy animals
scented with relationships.
Shades of lipstick on a cracked mirror
unwashed rugby shirts,
the soft tang of old spice aftershave,
vinyl albums revolving in our heads.
I recall it all ---- but no,
not wanting to dwell again with the young,
but to follow the routes of London buses
to past, departures and destinations,
to enter again
those rooms for penniless delinquents,
just to tidy up a little, and perhaps
close drawers and doors left open.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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