The Nature of the Beast

Cleaning the kitchen sink –
in that chimerical split second
twixt sundown and desperation;
through the open window
I hear sounds from next-door.
He’ll be watching the big match
as if his life depended on it...
She’ll be nagging him, as ever,
to change the channel.

Their son’s upstairs – practising
on that drum-kit of his. She yells,
‘For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up!’
Then, he’ll give her some lip,
and all hell will break loose. Later,
when they’re asleep, he’ll sneak
to the fridge, nick a beer – take it
to his room; the one’ll be missed
in the morning, usually, and then
the bickering resumes.

My mobile rings. My daughter,
telling me she’s off to Honduras
in the spring...some charity thing
or other. Another whole year gone
of our lives, before I see her again –
but it’s her life, she says, having
just turned eighteen. Nobody
else is a part of it now...least of all
me. Like when my husband left...
we were going nowhere, he said.
The thing was though, I thought
we’d arrived.

Wander outside, glass in hand...
the light from the kitchen follows me,
as does the cat – ruddy pest; always
under my feet but, I’d miss it, like hell,
if it wasn’t here. OK, so I’m drinking
too much, and smoking way too many
cigarettes, but what the heck? No one’s
counting, bar me, and I always was crap
at adding up. The moon half-heartedly
shows its face – veiled in high cloud;
colours my wine a darker shade
of depravity.