We suspected our neighbours

There are kettles and hairdriers
that turn themselves on

and off again
in the settled a.m.

there are insomniac
gas fires, blue eyed

and whispering
there are doors with locks

and a spare key
beneath the plant pot.

There are girls at night
showing bibs of pale skin

while a boy carves a puddle,
full beaming in,

his feet off the peddles
he is deftly undead

plus the post on the mat
is a card deck spread.