Empty houses hold plenty of air, Stacks of space, tonnes of time. Time to waste wishing and fawning, Flitting from a nothing to a nought. Ticking off another wistful hour That disappeared in vacant stares At distant indistinct dots drown In the midst of excuses. The smell of apathy clings To the musky dressing gown Wrapped around clattering bones And paper-thin, parched skin, Shuffling from bed to post for Arguments with ghosts of Deep-voiced betraying Fathers, Spectres of tireless Mothers, Belligerent Uncles, Unloving Lovers, Haunting the mirror, With trailing ectoplasm replaced By scarlet lipstick scrawling: "Perverted. Twisted. Crippled." Flashing in the bathroom, over and over and over, Until virtuous vanity is finally Settled as a clean, straight Filtered selfie Left unpublished, Unsealed and unbroken By the screening. Pretty, though. There, held back by the howling space, Racked in empty boxes Teetering on the prospect Of content, is a post-it note Labelled: "Remembrance". Then chased down to the kitchen By the insistence of the tick-tick-tick, Like a tenant retreating from the past. Troubling times ahead, then, Wondering what to eat for breakfast At four in the afternoon As the sun settles down between The ancient Yew and The ornamental horn-beams. Later, watching the night emerge into dawn Drawn slowly by the returning Etching rays of the early morning sun. More time then, to murmur orisons And count beads, crystallise Opaque plans to make something Of someone, somewhere. Fold it all up, please: The space, the time, the distance, The night, the day, the far stars. Fold them all up, and post them To someone who cares.
Benjamin Franklin, American founding father and publisher, was born today in 1706.
Anne Brontë, English novelist and poet, was born today in 1820.
James Earl Jones, American actor, was born today in 1931.