His walls were clean and wide,
papered in quiet shades
of
green with a Regency stripe;
hers were none too clean, square
and cramped,
a
dirty sand colour.
His ceiling was some way off,
light and airy,
hung
with glittering chandeliers;
hers was all too close, stained
and
hanging with damp.
His feet sank into thick, deep
carpeting -
was
it Aubusson?
her hip ground achingly into old
newsprint
and
infested sacks.
His windows - clear, tall, elegant
- looked over soft green lawns
sloping
to a river;
her view was limited, glazed but
with no glass,
of
rough wet paving, sloping to a drain.
He adjusted his bow tie, turned
the cool brass handle,
opened
the door to another luncheon;
she gathered her sour-stained
coat, drew up her knees,
rolled
her burning head, and didn’t go anywhere -
there
was no door to open.
Tomorrow he will shut up his room,
all his rooms,
go
down to his cottage in the country;
tomorrow, just eighteen, she will
leave her cardboard box -
unlocked,
but the only one she had -
and
go down to the mortuary.
(November,
1991)
