In the corner, by the kitchen door
the bones pile, forlorn.
You think you hear a sniffing, a pawing,
but the pile refuses to stop growing
the virgin king now wears a crown of dust
and all of the lizards of the world will observe
a minute of thankful, final, silence; stretching
their limbs in a kingdom they once scampered through
take a roll of film along when you slip beneath the blankets
for that moment when you’ll catch a hazy glimpse of him
but you will wake clutching crumpled negatives, blank
because reality, like too bright light, has kissed them
you will mourn, while Time folds itself
into a stiff tail that will never again wag itself
and just when you think the worst is over
all the noises in the neighbourhood
will assemble into one long, winding bark,
that will freeze itself midway, and crack the air.
In response you will make music with the bones that pile
by the kitchen door; a cruel, cruel, comforting memorial.
Tolu Ogunlesi (c) 2010