The Power Of Prayer Poem by Nick Burbridge

We have new neighbours.
They keep parking an old Ford
with no tax disc on the sidewalk.
They come back drunk at three
in the morning and row over the television.
Steve wears a leather and torn jeans.
Leila’s about nineteen: long dark hair,
too much mascara and short skirts.

It’s only a six month let.
But they keep the kids up.
I can see we’re going to have words.
My wife tells me no.
She wasn’t in last week
when this stranger was shouting on the doorstep
for some money they owed him
and Steve came down and beat him up.

Worse. They keep going at it about dawn.
She squeals and moans and shrieks.
He grunts like he’s hitting a heavy backhand.
The wall shakes. But I don’t think they notice.
Then the kids are up playing Pirate Ships.
I get a lot of headaches
and keep falling asleep at work.
I’m not what you call religious
but sometimes when all else fails
I go down on my knees
and beg for some kind of release.

I’ve seen them do it often:
come out of the house, rowing.
Steve gets in the car, pulls out and revs up
while Leila slams the door and lingers
on the sidewalk, biting her lip.
When we moved in
the agent called it a busy tree-lined street
which serves as a main bus route.

The old Ford wrapped itself
round our beech tree with the birdfeed
I haul in with a walking-stick. The horn jammed.
Steve’s head came through the windscreen.
But his legs were mashed inside the chassis.
Leila leaped back into the doorway
with a few cuts. Some people
on the double-decker puked up.

We went out to help.
But there was nothing to be done.
The funeral’s next week.
At the crematorium.
Leila says she won’t be staying on.
I told her I’m sorry for what happened.
And I’ve been down to confess.
But this is what I worked for,
this is what I have to protect.
I think if he’d got the chance
Steve would have understood that.