Elizaveta Bam Switched On the Fan

On this hurried mondaythursday
I sit on the sill of a sunny Sunday
under the drops of the rain gone by.
I sip the fragrant tea.
I swing my legs through the air
like a pendulum for de-hypnotising.
I blink at the music.
I see it. And I listen to it again
to make it quiver once more.

And my book-keeping paths
fall into proper lines
of arithmetic herds and
trigonometric packs.
They grow sodden with numbers and give birth to music.

I go to have my cards read
so that I can watch the fortune-teller.
Old and frail, she prophesies to me
while I watch her and breathe in the smell of her fancy,
adrift among old memories.

I go to the theatre to listen
to the coughing of the audience,
some thunderous sneeze
and the creaking of the seats.

Then
I wait for everything to empty,
I hide under the rows
and crawl, crawl…
Row after row,
Row after row,
to find something personal
dropped in the dark by a stranger.