sounds

This life
is a smoking cigarette
under a carport
beneath the midnight moon
with the wind silent
the trees silent
the ground dead in the moonlight
and the sound of ice
chattering in a wine glass
filling your head.

It is the sound
of your last great love’s
laughter
forgotten
like the whine of your first car
when it stuck in third gear.
Or the sound of your ring tone
at 2am
3am
when you knew it was her
and you were too brave too drunk
to answer.

Or
the sound of human reason
human love
human blame.

This life
cries
like the 374 to Coogee
climbing the Randwick hill.

It is every woman
on every bus
staring along the black corridor
as if it were an important line
from an important play
from some romance fiction.
And their eyes never meeting yours,
looking away
as if the lines in plays
meant something
and the long black lines of bus corridors
led somewhere.

It is the music
of her winter jacket
her summer skirt
hitting the floor
when the earth is a melody
and the sea sweats her name.

Until inevitably
it becomes
your love’s laughter
gone somewhere else,
when all you have
is the dead hum of your air-conditioner
and your dog snoring
and your mother asleep in the next room.

Your wine glass empty
your single bed
your bed sheets
the lights out.

sounds

Martin Lost

South Yarra, Australia

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