Phantom Factory – Mark Marusic

On Sunday night I’m entertained;
sitting in a silent house,
a sense of what once happened,
across the street,
infuses me.
Nearby airport rumble
reverberates with that
of long ceased biscuit factory
that is now a park;
iced vovos fog my mind,
like wind-blown flour
settled on my window,
caking in the dew.
When bats in fig trees flap their wings
I hear conveyer belts
whipping along
fancy mixed assortments;
beds of flowers
appear to me as bags of flour;
park gate swings open
– echoing the loading dock shutters.
The park sinks under
what it replaced
– which never had my presence.
In some part of me
forms a tableau
of what those once living here
saw and heard;
but why does this become so clear
on Sunday night?