Behind Closed Doors. Poem by Terry Collett

Miss Bundlestun watches the man
Next door go down the path to his
Car open the door climb in slam the
Door look up at her and give her an
Up you gesture with his middle finger
Then drive off. She lets the curtains
Fall back in place wondering if the
Gesture was for real or just a signal of
The common lot seen too often in the
Streets below even by the young who
Pass her by with gestures of the fingers
Or spew of tongue. He plays jazz on his
Hifi loud not quite to her taste and she
Often bangs on his door and shouts her
Complaints of noise or rowdiness from
Parties held all night. Her mother says
Nothing but sits silent in her dull armchair.
There is a clinging smell of decay in the air.
She denies the factor of her mother’s death.
She sits and talks or reads the news to her
Mother’s corpse dressed in last month’s cloth
And wasting skin. She thinks her mother (as she
Used to be) resides biting her tongue within.