The first discards are not even noticed -
the packing newspapers, old magazines,
the shift in the definition of local,
and the weather displayed on tiny screens.
One day too soon the memories are blurry
and previous city roads get unravelled.
The radio programmes, heights of doorframes
shift slightly to let you know you’ve travelled.
The last of the old supermarket’s brands,
bags bright in undegradable plastic -
a beaker bought there is suddenly broken
and shattered pieces of glass equal homesick.
You sigh, sweep up and throw them in the bin,
and that’s when the meaning of home sinks in.
I'm still celebrating the mundane, which is what I do, generally. I know, I should get a life! This year, I promise. I'll make a serious attempt. Right after I finish this post.
Anyways, last month, last month? year end, I was talking to my friend, and of course, we started with something very crisp and concrete on the agenda and wound up someplace completely unrelated-fuzzy, history, and homes, and the meanings of both. And something that was said - home is shared history, the stuff you carry around, the interior of the mind and not the interior of the house - must have stuck in ye olde subconscious and produced the above.
An Egyptian kettle and a teamug broke in the meantime, I don't know how they managed to sneak in here. But things have got to a pretty desperate stage if broken mugs and electrical appliances are making it to poems! Must find mundane, but less mundane, stuff to celebrate. Pronto!
What are you celebrating today? :)