The Neighbour's Tale

she sometimes mutters in the hall,

legs thickened with age, toenails gnarled

and curled, like horns,

she climbs each stair one-by-one

as heavy as an Ox, as careful

as a fawn, on ice.

she opens the door, to rubble of room,

her blitzed grotto tucked away,

inside a chimney jagging lane.

she walks a few feet, then lollops

into sagging dusty chair,

flipping a switch to a single tape-deck,

pre-loaded with an audio-cassette

which fills the catatonic, odourless

abode

with 1950s rock n’ roll,

and she closes both her eyes,

and sighs,

cruising down expressroute memories

and dug out trails

of people, places, faces, landmine

mental wounds, and thoughts

of flesh

that complete her tales.

 

 

she had a date arranged for Tuesday night.

Palace V Barnsley.

bought him the ticket as a gift

as well,

 

 

stood alone on the terraces

listening to the chorus of primal poetic

chants         

Reviews

[...]

. she seems like an amazing person, monsieur ...
. it's nice to meet her in your words ...