My Daughters

One leaves early in the morning,
with the clickety-clack sound
of her stilettos, size seven,
the other stays in bed, next to
her glass of water, mars bars
and world music cd's. I hear
but hardly see them. Their lives
are evident by signs they pass:
food gone from the fridge, a briefly
switched on tv, a phone ringing,
A brush with a door, a rush of wind,
remove their traces, but not
the heady vanilla-jasmine scent,
the crumbs of burnt toast,
scattered letters from the dole office.