It’s quiet – just her muttering and mumbling
all day long, and outside, a double-muffled
melange of frosted voices scurrying past.
The numbness she has, the gnawing, damp,
weathering of sensation, has her fidgeting
between naps, then turning her blurred eyes
to question the incomprehensible street,
or fiercely cross-examine his empty chair.
The hollowness, the wandering ache, amongst
all the dustless clutter of valuable things
in the assembly-kit that made their latest home,
is her, dispossessed of how she used to be.
For she remembers chirpy whistling days
with windows that breathed, seasons strolling
in for a chat, grubby knees at open doors,
and laughter scampering from room to room.
Now nothing stirs, nothing except time
creeping round, outdating the shiny things,
like her goldfish stalking quietus round the bowl.