It’s a quiet house now, but
still the refrigerator grumbles
several times a day,
chuntering grudgingly
evasive in the corner, like
an old man in a public lavatory
having difficulty with a troublesome fly
button,
immersed in some personal
but secret commentary.
but secret commentary.
In the same room, and
not to be outdone
a splendid kitchen clock
a headmistress in the making
claps out loud, for attention at
twenty-to the hour,
but strangely
she only applauds us twice a day.
After the heating has been on, and
the house cools of an evening,
the radiators stolid
as a pair of opening batsmen
retire for the day un-bowled,
sending a turbulent creak
through spare-bedroom Jim
who settles by turning over in
contracting huff.
I, prone on the small sofa
need to mimic a corpse
for fear of releasing a random fart
from the highly-polished leather,
dissatisfied with the knowledge
that no-one will believe it wasn’t me.
It’s a quiet house now
there’s only two of us.
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