Death by Shower. Part one.

Death by Shower. Part one.

I can hear mice in the walls

The scratch of a spider

On the skirting board

Trying to flatten itself against the wood

The drip of a tap

The crackle of electricity

As the sky erupts

Every dust moat

There has ever been,

As different as the next

Clanging

With the noise

Of a church bell.

Flies are campanologists

Dodging through the clamour

Of each peal, religiously.

The sofa creaks

With the pain of its age

The sigh of its springs.

Falling down drunk

Would never hurt as much

As the dent in my pride

If I fell over in the shower

Sober.

Bruising my ego

Breaking my skin

The snap of brittle bones

The smell of fear.

It would be the beginning of the end

To come a cropper

Good and proper.

Nobody would believe

The old guy died

As dry as a bone

Not a drop had passed his lips

For days.

That would be

What I would say

To anyone who asked.

It will be another hour or so

Before the next drink

Wets my whistle

And I flop down on the floor

With all the grace of a mannikin.

A jolt of recognition

At those words

When I remember

The woman we tried to save

With CPR

Too late.

The clamminess of her grey skin

The coldness

The emptiness of her body

I wonder if we had found her sooner?

How can we be happy

When so much sorrow

Slips into the conversation

Almost unnoticed.

I wouldn’t want

“He fell in the shower”

To be recorded

As a natural cause.

Misadventure is another

Weirdly grotesque connotation

I would hate to be tagged with,

Even if I was sober.