my own home

A schizopherenic climate and a tear. The young ignore the younger. Too many dead wasps collecting on the windowsill, too many heartbeats for this heart. The metabolism weakens. Black and brown. The old faithful familiar feeling of being left behind, 'sorry there's no room', waiting at the gate, anxious minder waiting for you to disappear. Mrs cuthbertson riddled with parkinsons 'go to the wall, go to the wall'. As you spoke the water ran with no abandon but your eyes stayed clear. Scared of me? Take a look. Tell me the truth, I can take it. Tone yourself down. We set off in the warm sickly scented car. I opened a window and breathed in the fumes, you played madonna. At once, stuck in a car line and an awkward silence that we could so fill with great words. But somehow they are too great to leave our heads, and we know what they are anyway. Blood ropes tied us together. You are so changeable. Now the building is glowing with morning light, my glass is frosted with cool. We've got a lot to do, and ive got to go. Serve up this food. My victorian family all civilised with knives and forks. Some of them are dead now, but I get a posthumous glance…leave without saying goodbye. I see you watching me.
We arrived late afternoon, we didn’t say a word. We were on our best behaviour, not in the freedom of our own home.