Mr Alfreds was saddened
by Mrs Tinkledrip's demise.
She had the two rooms
along the hall from his.
She had music playing
from some old gramophone
most of the day, old dance music,
foxtrots, tangos, waltzes and all
and he was sure he could hear
her footsteps some days
along the floor, tap taping
and soft shuffling.
Mr Alfreds went
and painted her kitchen
a bright blue in 1932,
and papered her parlour
in a flowered design
in August 1939.
Sometimes he stayed for lunch,
and they’d chat
about the good old days,
nibble sandwiches,
and sip warm tea.
Mr Alfreds knocked
her door the fatal day;
the music played
on and on
the same old tune.
He got no answer
to his rapping;
he thought
she was napping
and went away.
They found her dead
and cold next day,
sitting by the window
staring into death domain,
while outside came
the gentle pitter-patter
of slow rain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem