He knows more than they think,
As the rust tricycle harries
The grey-evening puddles.
Slut. Bitch. Whore.
Why always in the kitchen,
Where the fierce strip light
Shies drawn out spectres?
She by the sink,
Pretending to wash up;
He by the stove, probing
Until she turns.
Why always
Yell, murmur, yell,
Despite the pitter-patter rain?
While a TV set hums next door,
Its light a brilliant blue.
And always, if you strain,
The swish of a car up on the road –
The promise of something else but this.