From Death Of My Neighbour
Written by Adrian Burke
I
The man next door to me was a miner
Until the dust filled his lungs like coal-sacks;
Now he’s good for nothing so he says.
Now he walks in slippers and leans on walls,
And eats the clean air while his eyes fix on
Reaching the bottom of his garden.
His wife hides the Woodbines ‘for his won good’,
The pub’s half-a-day’s walk away for him
And it’s cruel crawling to the privy.
So few pleasures remain to him
That he takes a grim-sour joy in rudeness
To neighbours; he savours the honorary title
Of old bugger who likes a good whine.
His other treat’s to stand upright each day
And not bang his head against the sky.
IV
After the funeral
there were cars in the road
all up and down.
Voices lifted from the kitchen.
The grandchildren,
bored,
kicked the thrown-out settee
that lay on its back in the sun.
They played with the old timber
that builders had left stacked
and which he was going to make into a fence.
The children are growing restless,
said the parents.
Early next day,
she had washed her best frock
and pegged it upside down
on the line where it dripped.