Some of the feedback I received on my previous poem warmed my heart. It has given me the confidence to write something a bit more emotional. Here is: The Ghost Town.
The Ghost Town
The tap drips, when left at a certain angle.
It was that, or the stinging scent of square sausage,
Which woke me. The silence,
I’m used to as I rose, gazing at the photo of my wife.
For fourteen years, I’ve experienced this hollow,
Droning existence. As if life matters most,
To those who enjoy it, enduring everything,
With the person, they share everything with.
The tap dripped quicker, begging for a new washer.
Nostalgia of days gone, faded into purpose,
As I limped towards the garage. There’s an old Nokia, dead,
Useless without internet. And an old newspaper,
Clyde doesn’t deliver here anymore, in truth I got fed up,
Too much of a hassle, and too much Brexit.
Damn, not a spanner in sight,
Not a spanner for miles, she did crave a quiet life.
The tap dripped slower, making a mighty thud.
The request, turned into an expectation,
As I scraped snow off my Saab. Outside,
A blanket of white, from floor to sky.
No sign of life in sight, how she wanted it,
How I needed it. The journey was long,
The wilderness unending, until it did end.
Endless parked cars and buildings, but no people.
The tap dripped occasionally; its quest soon ending.
At the entrance of John’s tool shop, a sign with one word,
CLOSED.
To my left there was no one, to my right the same,
Then I saw another sign: ‘COVID-19 MASKS HERE!”
But what is COVID? The silence had followed me,
Into a Ghost Town, and then I saw in my reflection,
Her hand on my shoulder, I wasn’t alone.
The tap stopped dripping.
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To read my previous poem: The Circle of Love