Haway the lads.

Haway the lads.

Shame.

It is advertised as luxury

The sign outside the door

Proudly proclaims the value

Of a penthouse view

He is fine with his

Floor to ceiling windows

The smell of fried onions shut out

By the fire door

He collects nail clippings

Before flushing them

Joe has been heard to say

He is not superstitious

But read somewhere

That a witch with evil intentions

Would use offcuts

To burn a hole in his soul

The sound of running water

Is neverending

The rainy season

A little more than extreme

Birthing chest infections

Throaty coughing cuts through

From the third floor

A bemused neighbour

Uses a phone on loudspeaker

To arrange for his wife’s remains

To be collected from the mortuary

By a funeral director

He thought he would have more time

Laughs at the irony

A reminder of continuity

Even in death

When did a pandemic come to

Be just so passe

There is a flashing light in the hall

The fire alarm blips

In time to it

For a moment he is in Fallujah

Or a Blackhawk down

Over Mogadishu

He has watched too many movies

On his own

There is a depression in the sofa

Perhaps it is prescient

He shouts ‘all clear’

What does it matter

How nice the place is

He has been alone for so long

Unless he speaks out loud

He might forget how to form words

So many conversations

That were never so one-sided

Perhaps he can put an offer

In on the penthouse

But remembers how

The smell of food is transported

Through the lift shaft

The breeze block stairwell too much

Like an old Hackney sink estate

He lived in a long time ago

Before the tide turned

And he floated his boat

Out of the backwaters

He has come too far now

To drift along

Waiting for an encore.