a pantoum
It’s easy to get lost in the backstreets,
get distracted by the posters peeling off the walls
advertising music that died away years ago
yet still echoes in the mind.
The posters (now peeling off the walls) and
the street-names are familiar
(both, like the music, still echo in the mind),
but the map in your head’s no use anymore:
the street-names are familiar, although
one place no longer leads to another the way you remember it.
The map in your head’s no use anymore
and there’s never anyone around to ask.
One place no longer leads to another the way you remember it:
you detect no signs of movement behind the grey, unlit windows
and there’s never anyone around to ask and yet
you can’t help but wonder if it always was like this.
There’s no signs of movement behind the grey, unlit windows
and, true, imagination fills the gaps in memory, so
you can’t help but wonder if it always was like this,
although perhaps after dark it’ll all make sense
(even though imagination fills the gaps in memory).
And as the lights come on, amps click and buzz,
although it’s dark outside, it all makes sense.
Over a rising tide of half-heard conversations,
the lights come on, amps click and buzz,
guitars strike chords and I’ll go in
through the rising tide of half-heard conversations
order whiskey at the bar, breathe in the smoke
and wait for you.
.
Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor