Drawing room or parlour.
Now a store room.
I write at an old table,
With drawers and planks screwed down on top.
A phone, a mug and a crowbar
Are my companions.
The street is silent for a moment.
Unlike the time the neighbour’s dog
Barked for three nights long, three long nights.
The ink in my pen runs out
And as I return with a new cartridge
Aware of the headache arriving soon
I step on a splinter of wood
From the busted up wardrobe.
My bare foot bared,
The silence is over.