The figurines play in ecstasy, untiring,
the Selangor pewter jug ignores, in full-body disdain;
the early evening light brings one empathy, retiring,
the old fridge inner circuits whisper, whine, complain.
The hand-phone lies asleep on the carpet, a ruffled off-pink,
the cross stitch of Jean’s tapestry does nothing to inspire;
I pick up the cold thin can for yet another lonely drink,
the blunt pencil and scrap paper appear to conspire
against me, to ensure yet another evening’s dejection,
watching the artificial coal-glowing somnambulant flame
in a wet miserable drizzle of night sky reflection
by a miniature painting of a poppy in tight frame.
Neighbours imprison their own company, it would appear;
and I, I lounge alone in total solitary here,
