ON BEING LEFT Poem by Louis De Paor

When you're not here,
milk turns sour in the fridge,
the toaster burns the last piece
of bread deliberately,
the phone is struck dumb,
and the postman dies
on his way to the house.

Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses,
the minister and the parish priest,
the Avon lady and the Amway man
gang outside my door
to lambast my blasted soul.
Even Batman couldn't save me.

Terrorists and murderers,
clampers and tax inspectors
crowd the backyard,
pounding on locked windows,
yelling my secrets at the top of their voices
for the benefit of eavesdropping neighbours;
my criminal sins and sinful crimes
are a surprise to no one.

In the cowering dumb dark inside,
I hug your scent from cold sheets;
I reach for Cúchulainn's hurley
under the battlefurious
lumpy mattress.