Closing the Door

When he reached fifty,
head office called him up.
He packed an overnight case,
caught the train to Birmingham.
We're letting you go, they said,
and sent him home.

Next day the fire was lit,
and we were having tea,
when he came back.
The draught whistled
as he closed the door,
and smoke filled the room.

He sat at the table,
his head in his hands,
and didn't make a sound.
She stopped eating and stared,
taking in what she'd lost,
what she'd never had.

It was one of those moments
when you didn't make a noise
while you ate, and then
you slunk away to bed,
the draught whistling
as you closed the door,
the fire belching smoke.

Poison in the air.

.