By Daniel Williams
The scum around your bathtub,
the soggy biscuit at the bottom of your mug.
The dog mess you scrape off your shoe,
and the broken glass glistening in the alley.
One of those horror movies,
where the teenagers die in the woods,
inevitable.
A wine stain on the carpet
which won’t
come
clean.
Twitching her curtains and humming a pale song,
it’s the woman who lives in the house at the end of your street.
It is a flat tire and the crust on your eyes when you wake up.
The bum note of a jazz song,
that haunts you through your dreams.
The murderer’s extra care,
a swansong of the heart.
It twists the knife in our back,
and stamps on our feet when we’ve got no shoes on.
