The cleaner doesn't come till Thursday.

.

If I stand at the window with the lights out

I can watch the city glitter and the

evening stretch into wakefulness; the lively

clatter of heels on cobbles and cutlery

clinking; the wrappers of takeaways

blowing in the gutters of busy streets.

And no one will see me.

.

Curtain twitcher.

.

I can watch the people come and go, a

choreographed performance of life and art -

conversation and laughter, while I

dare to touch the front door; recoil from its handle

as though it burns. I must

leave this place.

.

It wouldn't take long; a knot here or

there, the sitting room tidied and boxed neatly

in alphabetical lines. Plugs switched off,

bills paid, skin clean. No, it wouldn't take long.

The quiet of the room behind the glass; voices muffled

and distorted, a lonely echo in a haunted room.

.

But I do worry for the cleaner - there was nothing she could do.


I feel I might rewrite this whole poem from a different view point. Hmm. But until then, please let me know what you think :)