Miss Bundlestun watches the man <br />Next door go down the path to his <br />Car open the door climb in slam the <br />Door look up at her and give her an <br />Up you gesture with his middle finger <br />Then drive off. She lets the curtains <br />Fall back in place wondering if the <br />Gesture was for real or just a signal of <br />The common lot seen too often in the <br />Streets below even by the young who <br />Pass her by with gestures of the fingers <br />Or spew of tongue. He plays jazz on his <br />Hifi loud not quite to her taste and she <br />Often bangs on his door and shouts her <br />Complaints of noise or rowdiness from <br />Parties held all night. Her mother says <br />Nothing but sits silent in her dull armchair. <br />There is a clinging smell of decay in the air. <br />She denies the factor of her mother’s death. <br />She sits and talks or reads the news to her <br />Mother’s corpse dressed in last month’s cloth <br />And wasting skin. She thinks her mother (as she <br />Used to be) resides biting her tongue within.<br /><br />Terry Collett<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/behind-closed-doors-18/
