Widow Facing Backyard. 1


I keep plastic flowers on the window sill,
they are spray painted in vivid colours;
I take them in once week and rinse them
under the tap; this morning they had tiny
snow flakes on, looked pretty and lit up
a room that only sees sunlight in June.

My friend, thought them vulgar, ashamed
of my bad taste I let them fall down into
the dark yard and we went out for dinner;
silent and angry I left early, walked home
picked up the flowers, rinsed them under
the tap and put them back on sill.


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Window Facing backyard.2


From my window I can see the wall of
a factory where they used to make cigars.
On good days I can inhale the aroma of
bygone days that despite poverty were
in many ways, less judgmental than now

Eight month a year the wall is grey, but
come May when dry and lit by sunlight,
it is a map of the world. Lakes, rivers,
mountains, seas and arid regions where
an oily, black mass trickles down.

I sit and think how nice it would be if
someone came scraped off the old paint
fill in cracks an repainted the wall; pink
this time. Guess it is too late, the wall
will fall exhausted by human disregards.

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Window Facing Backyard.3



Looking down into the yard, snow
had fallen and I saw a boy making
a snowman; no, not a fat one not
that much snow falls down a yard
between the tall buildings.

The boy, whose mother clean steps
and lives in the flat in the basement,
made the snowman, it was slim had
coal eyes and a carrot nose… it also
wore my old baseball cap.

When April came and snowmen in
middle-class gardens had melted,
our man was still there, minus eyes
and nose, but I kept seeing him
long after he had gone into oblivion.