Scavenging (a poem)

It’s a process, as they way…

Let the competing voices
try to outdo each other
for the home audience

From the other room
they become insignificant murmurs
a subliminal Miss Othmar
to fill momentarily empty spaces

I’m lost again in melting heat
looking through old pictures
and things of mine from before I was born

I was new once
and it was possible to capture
my life in such detail
that competing voices
may have been on another planet

With each passing day
and each waiting hour
details drop off a little at a time
those grains of sugar
that never make it into the bowl

What’s left is a vague sense of flavour
(did it really taste like that?)
that fails to capture
enough of the real thing
to trust the memory

After that
it’s digging through the archive
weighing scraps and clues

What won’t piece together
I’ll fill in later

(4/5 September 2019)



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