Rodney Purvis: Hamlet in Suburbia

Hamlet in Suburbia

Part of a pattern now, abandoning

A decision thought previously worthwhile,

He rolls another cigarette and slumps

Into the cerise armchair by the hissing fire,

Whose bland susurrus underscores his meditations.

On the patio, beyond venetian slats

And wrought-iron bars, the giant green lily leaves curl back,

Stirring a little in the desultory wind.

The villa’s colour scheme: white trim, blue guttering

Is echoed in the vacuous sky

And phalanxed storm clouds’ slow manoeuvring.

An insular, sterile suburb with few sounds of life,

Few footfalls or voices from the empty streets.

Here life is measured by a banging door,

The whining of some tethered animal.

At night the traffic’s distant tide retreats

Down fog-bound hills and labyrinthine ways.

In this suburban villa, his capacity

For poor decision making seems advanced.

He’s in suspension, living in the void,

He’s Hamlet’s ghost, wandering unseeing down these corridors:

Turn a corner, flick a switch and face this mirror.

Who is this pitiable ogre

With such a strong desire for calm and beauty?

Rodney Purvis