Monday, April 23, 2007
My Apartment Building
What can I tell you of my life,
my past twenty-three years,
I who barely can remember?
What was lived has passed,
a remnant converted into memories not recalled,
like old rent receipts or books abandoned
in the trash room
when their owners have grown sick of them.
Like empty beer bottles tossed into the recycling bin.
Of course, everyone I met was strange,
and maybe they thought the same of me:
how I reached and recoiled like a shy dream image,
how the sounds of the automatic garage door and of the
air conditioning unit surrounded me. The ceiling of my apartment shimmered
with the reflection of an imaginary, much younger man.
Someone, acquainted with me, said my eyes were glassy,
like the coffee table top in the lobby, but what was there,
what I had and lost, I never fathomed.