Monday, 5 February 2018


there’s a hole in the aspidistra parlour.
down there, in the corner, behind the chair,
under there, where they stare.
the lace curtains choke off most of the light,
and no time in the one beam dusts.
the deep purple once time tablecloth 
exhales and silks over the edge. the crocheted centrepiece crowns. all air has been exhaled. 
they sit and stare. tea cup cakes.
the china lifetime cabinet cries
a crack down the middle of the room.
the “he was” nod to the “wasn’t he?”.
the silence weighs a heady secret.
behind the sliding doors that do not slide
the murmurers are sandwich making.
the rheumatic clock tocks the breaths,
the sighs, the finger fidget sighs.
hard back chairs whisper to
the arm chairs, to the sofa sitters,
as their tears sink in the dust.
he must?
it must?
have been;
a blessing, at the end. the room contracts, and
each thought throttles the aspidistra.
heads turn, and slowering, stare at
the floor, in the corner,
down there, behind the chair,
under there;
they creep out one by one.
death’s dust settles down.
the aspidistra stares at the clock.

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