When We Lived Near Camden
The leaky faucet drips some stranger's steps.
The streetlamps, outside, leak their sulphurous light.
Dawn's coming, but my vigil must be kept.
I lie still, listen, find no troubling sound except
the others' rhythmic snoring. Wait -- not quite --
I hear the faucet drip some stranger's steps.
The kitchen's dark and secret. All its corners must be swept,
its cupboards prodded, all the locks made tight --
dawn's coming, but this vigil must be kept.
I can't ignore it. Since we came I've grown adept
at picking out these savage noises. Every night
the leaky faucet drips some stranger's steps.
The clocks pulse, phosphorescent. I've never slept
the night through here. There's something sacred in this fright.
Dawn's coming, but my vigil must be kept.
The streetlamp's light shuts, like a door. I've wept
sometimes, to see the curtains go from blue to white.
No rest yet, though: the faucet drips some stranger's steps.
Dawn's coming, but my vigil must be kept.
back to the index
