October 27th 2022 - FLOOD
I miss my nook
encased by books
my shelves and shelves
of former selves
of thoughts
ideas and rhetoric
and trippin’ theories
fond and cheery
my history
composed of words
and rhyme
and dictionaries
I miss my comfy daggy chair
and footstool
brutal beige and cheap
from swap and sell
the view
out through the big tall door
no flyscreen ever fit
a place to sit
and catch my ancient breath
and marvel
at my battered pink flamingo
gold-tipped swan
and little pots of
ragged leaf and colour
on the deck
I miss the knowing
of where every single thing
I treasure
sits
I reach my hand
to find the stapler
ink
the paper knife
a key
a flashcard
button and
a business card
a note reminding me of something
that I need to do
my Maxfield Parrish picture book
my vintage Rolling Stone
with John and Yoko
curled up naked on the cover
a rosy piece of wrapping paper
I was saving
and some stamps
now all is damp
and clammy
mouldy
gone
my nook is stripped back
to the plaster
grey disaster area
with creepy sepia tide mark
that does not even try
to tell the tale
there is no refuge
to be had
within our home
stripped bare
we prop on fold-outs
make do
count our blessings
count the days
the weeks
the months
before we reach
the comfort zone
before we find our home again
rebuild
from rubble
and it will be nice
it will be new
but that fond place
my nook
is gone
it is a memory
shored up tight
within my heart
I want to wave a magic wand
and bring it back
but I have let it go
that place
that sweet sanctuary
a little death
but not so sexy
the corpse home
pillaged by the stealthy water
crying ‘what’s this shit?’ and
‘what’s the point of that?’
like some relative
who never knew you
never knew your heart
or cared
or gave a flying fuck
it has dredged you
slaked you
with its toxic muck
where’s my hammer?
I see it in my toolbox
in my wardrobe
beneath a rack of frocks
then I remember
no
there is no rack
there is no wardrobe
a few frocks shiver
in a plastic sack
our homes
our houses
are ideas
are concepts
studded with
some bric-a-brac
appliances
towels
a toothbrush
and a plastic mac
the bobcat’s coming
the tip awaits
it only hurts
when
you look
back.
My book of poems, A Day At A Time In Rhyme (Littlefox Press) can be found here: https://www.amazon.com.au/Day-At-Time-Rhyme/dp/0648083861/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=A+Day+At+A+Time+In+Rhyme+Jane+Clifton&qid=1572053238&sr=8-1