Home
When they go out and slam the door,
The house remains faithful
To their absence.
Surfaces insidiously gather dust,
A secret accretion blocking pores,
A skin hardening to indifference.
The curtains, impartial, as usual,
Will not be drawn, so the windows
Are left to frown upon light and shadow.
A tap, its mouth loose, drips, spittle
Calcifying and spreading the tittle-tattle of rust.
The clock unwinds, ticks, tocks
A touch more slowly or quickly,
Adjusts as its mood thins or thickens.
The fridge hums and then forgets
The tune, falling into a frigid sulk
With a juddering shudder.
The milk feels left out and sour,
Its jagged lips pouting.
Toast crumbs, ignored, foretell
Fortunes that still no one is reading.
The iron flirts with the idea of being left on,
Of wrinkles smoothed, of creases gone.
The TV, blind-eyed, remains on standby,
Soap operas stored, ready for replay.
The mirrors doze in unlidded sleep,
Dreaming the empty rooms,
With unbelieving eyes.
The alarm clock, awakened from a snooze,
Petulant and querulous, repeatedly peeps.
The photographs, held on pause,
And having cause to believe in their own story,
Stare, without memory, into the cold light of day.
The washing machine, on a dark wash program,
Matinees intimacy - Boxer’s Tangle with Tights!
Lights! Camera! Action!
Pyjamas, discarded and spastic,
Savour the heat and aroma
Of armpit and crotch.
Fragrances linger, a snatch of voices,
Scenting the foul air, where smells and noises
Commingle – a his and hers, a redolence
Of the bitter perfume of spilt coffee
And shattered crockery.
And where the echo of sharp words
Clashed like cutlery in a kitchen drawer,
Slashed at history like swords drawn,
The walls ache with silence.
Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment.
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