Eddie's

by Robert Ford

From my second story room

up at Eddie’s I hear the kids

screaming over at the park

across the street, squeezing out

the pulp of the summer holidays.

Through a thin stripe between

the cigar-brown curtains the sky

is darkening, but I can only imagine

the world as puzzled together

from random sounds, peopled by

grown-ups on blood-pressure pills

bumping their tidy cars at twenty

along the ruts of the avenue.

Gulls yack the shore in over

the rooftops. Somewhere near

there will be waves throwing up

the ocean onto a dog-walker’s

beach, waiting like idiots for

the mood to reveal itself.

My bed creaks out a lullaby

on its springs every time I move.

I’d lose my mind if I could only

remember where I’d left it.