by Sabrina Basten


The walls are reaching high, made of orange bricks, covered with wheels, the fine music crawls up the rickety stairs and the carpets are just soft.

She is laying on that compliant golden corduroy couch,
around her all these moments.

Blowing through each other’s minds like a vivacious lightning
‘how could I have known.’
The radiation of trust, the welcoming care,
like a sliding blind pass over the blue line.
The joyful rapper bracketing away, from lawns to churches.
A verbal whirlwind that knows who teaches swing in this town.
Most charming compliments that only a Swedish girl could misunderstand.
A sardine that swims with hands and feet.
The bastion of calm, out of the blue that holds you tight.
The endless room, at the end a tree,
is empty and filled with the most beautiful music.
Possibly something great will be purchased after she left.

The taxi drives towards the growing sun,
her flip-flops still glued to the dance floor,
she walks up 5240 and opens the door,
a smell of defined koffie is saturating the air,
from far a French birthday song is recited
while she passes by an abstract drawing of a tropical island.
Hermann the lobster is spreading his wings on the kitchen table,
he is just very straight forward.
She pushes through the pile of cat hair towards the balcony,
deciding to take some home in her suitcase to make her own cat.
Just as she is walking barefoot over Rummikub stones
spread systematically on the floor,
the eager popcorn hit the bottom of the checkered pillow.
She loves her car subscriptions and anything that relates to these trips.
These junctures, even if it’s simply the very first Poutine,
make her heart grow, it is aching a bit, maybe a little bit more than that.
The sodden green of a mountain can indeed make you feel small,
saying to herself, ‘thank you for letting me see your new home,
so I can still relate to your life.’

She is closing the sketchbook and all sit down to a magnificently made meal, made with so 
much dedication, like music in your mouth.


Image: Sabrina Basten, Battle Feeling. Courtesy the artist.

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