The imprint

I left an imprint in that armchair

On that street with no name,

I thought of the others who'd languished there

And played the same game,

Of wondering what the life of another was like

Spectacular and worth savouring

Or unremarkable and trite.

It's funny how these are the places we mark

Like thumbing through pages as a way to stay sharp.

But stranger still that we seldom return,

To all those seats, steps and stairwells

Leaving traces but nothing to learn.