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
The rest of your days will be spent watching
Time fold itself, into a stiff tail;
and hearing the voices of neighbours seep through
the walls; short, sharp woofs in a broken English.
The bones pile still, by the kitchen door;
a cruel, cruel, comforting memorial.
Tolu Ogunlesi (c) 2011
A version of this poem was blogged a year ago (April 2010), here.