THE SAME GAME.
The house where once you
Lived belongs to others now;
You watch them ghostly as
They come and fro, in and out
Of rooms, and up and down
Stairs, talking to each other
As once you and your family
Did, even their rows are the
Same, with the same spite
And anger shown. Some days
You sit by the window and look
Out or wander around the house
From room to room, just to walk
About to see things as they are
In this new fangled fashion with
Odd objects and ways of getting
Rid of passion. Some nights you
Creep around the rooms as others
Sleep, peering over shoulders,
Staring at faces, brushing at hair,
Which never moves, reaching out
To feel a hand, but never quite
Touching. Last night you sat and
Watched a couple making love,
Saw their wanton passion, their
Bodies moving, their oohs and
Ahs and moaning voices, and
Remembered the night when
Very young, you crept and heard
The same, when Mother and Father
In semi dark, played that game.
