I am alone, the metaphorical
Candle is glowing by my HD screen
Old fashioned? Perhaps, but I wonder if
My laptop is that which is out of place
For in the darkness every noise is old
The creaking of the building’s settling bones
The patient clock counting upon the wall
Imagined scratching of nocturnal mice
(I know they’re there although they’re rarely seen)
And in the dark our modern trappings fade
Am I the ghost that haunts this bygone night?
Is it my tapping that is out of place?
During the night’s progression I find that
Time wraps around itself until this now
Is all there is, and space constricts upon
The room until finally, I vanish

I’m writing this in the small hours of the night, downstairs, alone. A spooky time to write a poem.
(01.04.22)

© Ben Quant 2022