Panopticon by Ross Thompson, written in Bangor during 2020 Lockdown
What it is to be lonely, like sneaking
unseen into a slow, sleeping city
in the fuzzy glow of early morning,
leaving no trace on grids of unmanned streets,
a stagehand creeping unnoticed between
scenes, black on black as you fill cups with air
or drape blank newspapers over a folding
table in a pretend café where spooks
mouth silently over a dense soundtrack
of quiet, then coming home in the dark
of evening to still rooms of unopened
curtains and a flatscreen for company,
then falling into half a double bed,
fearful that you might wake up as a ghost
by a lit fireplace, haunting your own house.