December poem

I have used the nine or so lives of this house. 

they are neatly crossed utensils lain just so on an encrusted plate,

In a glance I recall exactly what was there

and what was used to create it

and who made the art and what it is made of and

I know where the light switches are

on which side of the wall when you enter the room

and what the wall feels like 

and the smell of the paint as it dried lingering for days until it became cool and powdery to the touch 

and the first flaw and the layers that compounded

and the when it began to look like it needed a new coat and the time it became apparent that there would not be one.

how many steps to the stairs and which way to turn to go up and the table by the door that must be avoided so as not to leave a nasty bruise on the thigh.

I have used this small house and it has been a theatre for the dramas of my company

each actor performing simultaneously in their own private act.

Sometimes the effect was cacophony and poly rhythmic

and other times a quiet as the ticking of the clock on the wall-the one that stopped at ten past two and was not restarted for years.

and when it finally resumed its tick tocking,

the cat was alarmed and strove to get to the closest point on top of the adjacent wardrobe to investigate. She nearly fell off. I took a picture. the things you will see if you watch: all happening right in front of you and all around you and inside of you. 

all combined until you think you are one with it and then it vanishes

and all you have are your own thoughts tick tocking 

and it is enough