These Hallways
Why do I not recognise these hallways
I have known all my life,
walked a hundred thousand times?
my hat that does not hang
is as empty and as tacit
as my footsteps; my pipe smoke,
spectre-grey, wanders sadly
in the crisp electric air
from the table by my chair
next to the book I fear
I may not finish. The painting
in the hallway, the Monet
with the hazy figure looking lost
upon some speckled country road
has gone, usurped by some geometric
phantom half the size. Why do I
not recognise these hallways?
Am I to be the stranger
that is within thy gates?
I must find my minds’ peace,
You sleep alone tonight, my love,
And every night it takes.