Grimbeau

Idling around upstairs:

the crows nest on a dead

lead soft afternoon.

Was that our gate?

Is the back door locked?

Pscho-burglars,

Killer-flyers,

Mutant neighbours, midweek papers,

possibly a bloody postman!

hello…

hullo…

Helloohh…

stagnant pause (eleven years)…

sighs…(two short, one longer)

footfall on stair…

Shostokovich climaxes…

A throat clears…

Blue flush of toilet…

Phulushhh…

‘What was it?…’

‘When I picked it up it was dead…hisss

I mean dead happened just as I picked it up…

the other one was the paper boy…’

Deeep breathes…

so glad it was just a piddling matter.