Litkicks Message Board Archive

Vacancies (PC)

Posted to Poetry




Some of the crushed bulbs
at the front of the house
still flashed a little at the filament.
The tapwater ran outside
into grass, hair and lice molasses
underneath the spare bricks.
I was sat outside the entrance
with my head held in my knees,
waiting for the nurse
to move in my things.

There's space still available here.

As I followed him inside, I swore
I could smell my mother;
somebody had painted all the walls
yellow, so they would look wider.
The carpet was free of any rogue hairs
that might've fallen from me;
they hired somebody a week before
to shave my head and body.
I lit up my last cigarette,
ventured upstairs, found my dorm
just next to the bathroom and reminded
myself of the rules:
NO RAZORS, NO SHOELACES.

I heard the pipes click
and turn over water,
the constant rhythms of bones
that sit between chlorinate walls.
And I watched the nurse
as he prepared our supper;
he came into my room every day
with the food, pulling the trolley behind him.
While swallowing yellow root
and spiderflower, being fed by hand,
I noticed that his fingers had a strangeness,
a fluid and regular movement.

There's space still available here.