Quiet

I’d grown used to things that go bump in the night,

Even the windowsills being wiped,

The shopping trolley slamming down the staircase,

The aloof neighbor who hid her face.

 

Winter brought a blanket of snow,

A trail of footprints wandered from her door,

She wandered out long before the thaw,

She didn’t come back as she’d done before.

 

It was blissfully quiet for days,

Then all too quiet for weeks,

After a month it became eerie,

After two came a clean-up team.

 

They removed all her belongings,

Brown mattress, soiled torn blankets,

Tatty old nylons and other clothing,

Old saucepans with crusty food coating.

 

An old washing machine, a rusty ironing board,

A kettle, a deep fat fryer,

Everything filthy and covered in shit,

Rusty, broken, worn out or retired.

 

I guess she must have died,

If she ever truly lived at all.

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