stonedsour's Diaryland Diary

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Diary Entries


I need a spy-hole to screen intruders.
Since you left, he never lets me in, not even
a little, a warning bell buzzes constantly
in my imagination, or perhaps it really is
the door. When I open up, there’s always someone
with something to sell. The local history archivist
announces her slideshows and curled photographs
and I sign up for a talk on nineteenth century
sewage systems. She feigns interest when I thrust
your diaries, can’t he understand the simple thing
I’m asking? A little time, into her arms. I expect
you on the step, your shoes
wet from the puddle by the gate, your hair
uncombed, your cheeks scored with mascara, his words
lack clarity, never sound even a little under-rehearsed, Instead
some man I’ve never met pulls a box
from a sack – “an executive toy”, he boasts,
“five balls to juggle when the ratrace slows
for a second, or would you prefer desktop
air hockey for two?” I pile the balls with other
useless purchases by the stairs. I sold your cafetière
the day after you left, but one can buy anything back
with one click. One could reply
to Chief Mabuye’s email, his offer to share
thirty-five billion in return for lifelong
companionship, a little love if he knows
what love means, a debt I could perhaps repay. The house
looks empty despite the spiderwebs and the pink
knickers you left in the washing-machine I set to spin
once an hour. The phone is full
of cold calling, the in-tray stacked with double-glazing quotes
and guarantees to smother outdoor sound. I send the chief
my credit card number, just a little trust
would be enough, Three days ago the complete Oxford dictionary
arrived by parcel post but the definition you asked for
as you stormed out the back door
must wait a little longer for the right words
and the loosening of layered wrap.

11:39 a.m. - 2005-04-02

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