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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BhAyt7g5tNs&ab_channel=WestwoodRecordings

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Uninspired,

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Sunlight washes through the wide windows

Of an empty apartment: across the auburn

Of artificial, laminate floorboards;

Across the pale colorlessness

Of modern drywall, the familiar shade

Of eggshell, or bone,

Of Benjamin Moore’s ‘classic grey’,

Of a color that is without color

So as yet to still call itself, paint.

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There are little nails

That’ve been driven into these walls:

Little nails, with little indentations,

That cast little shadows

In the morning light -

So as could be hung, little paintings, little ornaments,

Decorations that in most respects

Are all that amount

To that which makes a house, a home.

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There are no paintings in this apartment, no figurines

Adorning shelves, no carvings, no sculpture, no art,

No stacks of books, no ottomans, no furniture,

Just an empty space

That’d been filled with that morning’s sunlight

And a manically catalogued

Calendar, that marked 

But the seven weeks before

The memory might be left

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Behind.

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