A plumber could be in the pub
instead of fixing her leaky tap,
drop after drop, becoming incessant
almost boring,
a hole that diverts her thoughts.
The hairdressers'
where women let their hair down;
literally, cascading colours fill the floor
talk of sex
men
jesus
the bomb
the landing on the moon
and water rates.
The "old dears" with the blue rinses
queue up for their pension/pittance
dis/orderly roles in the post office,
one by one they collect
what little they didn't already have.
How they love to complain, about the price
of this/that/fish and other things that
cannot be mentioned.
Then there are the pale-pallid twitching people
that parade up and down outside the pharmacy,
waiting for their methadone script/ a quick swallow
- down/then gone.
Val, at number 80
wont hang her sheets out today
it's that awful pissy rain
soaks you through;
she shouts at you as you walk past
to get your milk and bread
from Ashraf's corner shop.
All of this in one day-
what of life and love
and the splendour
of raindrops
on the budding honeysuckle?
what will happen on Friday?
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