Prosopopoeia after Cesare Pavese

We shared an age, a name once
but now recline upon ossified heaps of labour
where acrid lanolin holds court with nobler gasses.
I can’t tell if you recall.
We took a voice away and mocked through murmured polymer
our rich friends and their parents
whose apathy, sat next to the dishwasher, would arise
to break the quiet that creeps up like damp.

The sea twice swollen laps at the orange bricks
far below your window. The mortar holds impassive
as you condemn our poor friends
to artisan ruin beneath their rightful debt.
You are the cohort’s best who lapses into the mediocre
penumbras of our forebears.
The cost of assimilation is silence
and I too fail to speak.
All is likewise inert.

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