This poem is taken from Stand 216, 15(4) December 2017 - February 2018.

Sean O'Brien Poem
Wrong Number

Nobody there but white noise and old weather,
The faint breath of time ticking over.
I ought to hang up, but there follows

The second-hand sound of an ancient tram
Arthritically cornering, close to the Wall,
A part we never visited but I appear to know

As if I lived there. One more friend is gone.
There goes the tram I heard but never saw
And with it comes the view from nowhere,

From those tall, prohibited depositories
In grey, shell-pocked Wilhelmine stone,  
Where air and dust were placed under arrest

Until such time as Fascism was dead
And all the apparatus of the state
Could lock itself away and be forgotten.
Searching, please wait... animated waiting image