I see them from the sofa,
I see them from the sofa,
As they walk across the window
From one side to the other
Hiding behind the flat screen
For a while,
Extras in a soap opera.
I wonder what they do
When I can’t see them
Do they see me?
Even through darkened glass
Perhaps they know
And stick out a tongue
Twin forks
Of lightning.
The screen is framed
By glass and fabric
Where long curtains sit back,
Hands on hips,
Admiring how they hang,
What a pair.
Do furnishings have agency?
Do they absorb
Essence from the air
To create ambience
Homeliness
Reflecting the warmth
Of their surroundings.
People walk past the window
With purpose
Off to the races
The Marx Brothers
Smoke cigars
And laugh like drains
The women wear hats
With Ascot on their minds
Wanting to be seen
In all the right places
But I saw her face,
The one with Groucho
At her side
As she turned
With tired eyes
Looking at my window
The effort to remain smiling
When she adds in the cost
Of a flutter
He still holds the cards,
The arguments
Are more frequent
Than they used to be.
When they were younger
She would glitter
Fuss and flounce
Even without sleeping.
Now she farts
And burps like her granny
The old man
Smells like a brewery
Sometimes the woman
Next door.
Life will never be the same
As it was before
The kids.
I can see them from here
As I throw another
Epithet on to the page
Hoping it will stick.
A skeletal poem
Skitters across the floor,
Rolling under the table
Dissolving into dust and rust
Where all the sad excuses
Wait to be excised.
The first cut is the deepest.
There is no excusing
Hubris
Nothing matters half as much
As routine
Otherwise, the walls will fall.
So many strangers believe
They are immune to it
But they all follow the rules.
It is the way of rebellion
To obey the highway code
And they keep walking
As another family
Saunters into
Out of
Into
Out of view
As I sit and wonder how long
It will be before
I succumb to indolence
Single-malt
And self-indulgence.