The kettle clicks like her heels,
but she’s still in the two up, two down.
The only thing that’s evaporated
away is the ruby sunrise. The cat
with more courage than her ex-husband
is chasing away invisible monkeys
by the living room window. She’s sold
her Monopoly dog but can’t afford
to manifest zero hours into edible clocks.
The tin man of a boiler is rusting
from unpaid bills. The garden
is a scarecrow dismantling itself
from neglect. Sometimes, a kindly woman
knocks on her door, asking for interest.
Acts on behalf of the man
with a temper expanding like a hot air
balloon, who lives in an empty
Victorian mansion on top of the hill
and owns a factory producing bricks.
Charges triple for yellow ones.
.
Christian Ward
Picture Rupert Loydell
.