The Beautician's Day Off

Over by the corridor
Ms. Smith sleeps;
mouth agape. She snores –
blanket soaked with saliva;
her French-pleat in disarray.
Her nail polish, chipped –
in need of repair...
but it’s the beautician’s
day off today; a joke
if ever I heard one.

Then there’s old Tom,
next to the window.
He’s a regular. Crystal meths
and methadone his latest poison.
You’re bound to know Tom.
Round any street corner
he’ll be – him
and his three-legged dog.
Nepalese he is – fought
in the Falkland’s War,
for all the respect it’s worth.
His real name’s Tormka –
means, ‘Magic Stone’.

Richmond, Surrey
Ms. Smith was born.
Brown – her maiden name;
a teacher by profession.
Monday afternoon
she last opened her bowels;
Blood Group, ‘A’ positive –
her husband died last spring...
Things normally discussed
behind closed doors.

A flimsy curtain screen
all that’s between them
and their dignity...
when I break it to Tom
his liver’s shot.
When he asks
who’ll care for his dog.
When I tell Ms. Smith,
as likely as not,
she won’t finish the book
she’s been writing.
It’s at times like these I wonder
what the hell it’s all for.