I dream the familiar floor plan,
watch current residents
of my former steps, shuffle
zombie-like, on the footprints
of a dance-step diagram,
up the gray halls, sullen, void
of laughter or tears of years
spent, absorbed in walls and rugs
mothballed in domestic memory.
Flies lie dead in the green
glass of the bathroom light
and one fluorescent bulb
above the kitchen sink blinks
and starts, but no-one sees,
or wants to see, the ghost town
of rooms, playing widescreen,
silent with no subtitles,
remote long lost, since I removed
and took its essence in my heart.
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