The duet.

september, a weekday – 

so hot the sun singes

the leaves of deciduous

oak trees. a sunshine 

like knitted wool 

turtlenecks, close 

and uncomfortable

as dogs in a cubside 

heap napping. and down

on the pavement

two men are sweating 

and trying to manoeuvre 

a piano. ha, right! 

now some music! 

I switch on the radio, 

watch from the window,

as they step

together and very 

much carefully, 

with the help 

of a flat-bedded cart. 

on top of the piano

a balanced guitarcase

and some books (I suppose)

with sheet music. 

they exchange

quiet phrases – 

quite efficient – 

communicating traffic

and the approach

of possible potholes. 

beside them

the trucks

and taxis slow

with some caution 

and sympathy

to the pace

of their wriggling load. 

Some colour.

in her room

all the flowers

are artificial 

flowers, all scented

with potpourri

and out of date

crusty-necked

brown-bottled

clustering 

ointments, much

as are the birds

which climb 

on the wallpaper

and perch 

above cupboards

of old tacky

plates. she lives

in a dark room, 

ageing like wine

bottles opened 

at parties in

cabinets, floating 

with crushed

cigarettes. I visit 

occasionally – 

we do the hard cross-

word together. 

of course, she does

better than I. her mind 

is there, just not 

body, and the flowers

show colour also – 

they've been blooming

through years 

without water. 

though they are

a little faded – 

a little dusty,

a little ashed.