If the Walls Could Talk. A poem by Gail Sheridan

I listen closely through daytime and night,
I hear nothing at all, bar the sound of the clock,
No laughter, or chatter, no faces lit bright,
No teachers scolding for running amok.

I’m looking intently for signals of norm,
Seeing unfamiliar stagnation, perpetually still,
No busy preparations of delights in all form,
No revelers pile, sharing indulgences sweet before splitting the bill.

I’m urging my senses to heighten in case,
Somehow I am missing the crowds from before,
No wine, women, song, no thundering bass,
No lights spinning gracefully, no kaleidoscope floor.

So here I will wait for my soul revive,
The children, the patrons, the ravers to meet,
Within the hollow of me, to live life and to thrive,
No blood, veins or bones, I am cold grey concrete.

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