The Bell Beats Like A Drum.
Coming home late, quiet keys and clumsy ways.
Later than expected, the gas fire moaned my bringing in the wind.
The room bent backward, an untidy place, stinking of emptiness.
Backward I went, in heavy sodden lumberings, into my pocket chair.
Slumbering occasionally, awakening in startled alarm.
The gas light making a fool of the shadows,
Making blue pools of my darken eyes.
"Hello" I ask weakly, unless answered.
I suck in the silence, I suck in the vapours of stink;
I shrink into my gas lit pocket of odour.
The gravity of everything appears spontaneously humorous.
I laugh as the bell beats like a drum.