"Quello del trasloco", per Enrico Palandri
Calling you one last time, I can imagine
our whole empty town-house, its rooms strangely
grand, for the absence of things, now cartons
marked in the hallway ‘Books’ ‘Kitchen’ ‘Bedroom 1’...
I picture you right at the top, in that lorn attic
once their nursery, oh, such a long way back,
our children that bickered and grew there dispersed:
one’s dead – in Oregon – another married and elsewhere;
your youngest’s on day-tickets from the asylum.
All three seem more real to you in their albums.
You are gazing out at the small gated square,
still glittering from a ten-minute rain-shower,
keeping an eye out for the shippers, remembering...
The telephone tugs at the hem of your mind;
you turn for the stairs, then shrug, and remain.
Leave it to ring, my love. Too late. Let it ring.
from The Sadness of Animals (Canterbury: San Marco Press, 2012).