at the door – a poem

my backpack sits slumped over

from where it was thrown –

coming in from going out –

gathering dust –

and when lockdown was announced

there the backpack remained –

the shoes piled around it,

like loose stones around a rock –

the contents of time suspended –

loose mints, and receipts –

a water bottle, and pens separated

from their lids –

pads and wipes –

lip balm –

a notebook –

and until i remembered

to throw it in the bin –

some days later –

a half-eaten lunch –

i didn’t dare to peel back the foil it was wrapped in.

Kate ©

Who Are They?

the flat next door – at number 18 –

has been empty for some time

and we had given up thinking that anybody was going to move in –

until they arrived –

in a small blue car – a pair of dice dangling in the windscreen

with two garden chairs they pulled from the back seats

which they left on the patio

and then their belongings in binbags

which they piled onto the grass

until the car boot was empty –

we use the curtain for cover – through the window

trying to get a glimpse –

are they young – a couple – married –

do they play music at a loud volume at Midnight?

we’ll have to see.

Kate (C)