Dirty House with Dirty Curtains

Dirty House with Dirty Curtains

Dust hangs thick in the air, not moving

even when I breathe. The kettle sulks

on the ring that’s never clean,

sour milk in a chipped blue mug.

Curtains, once yellow, now something else

stiff with grease and blown smoke,

move just a bit when the wind remembers

this place exists.

A crushed fly in the corner of the sill

where the blind never reaches,

black mould threading the frame

like it’s been sewing itself a home.

Sink stacked again. No plates left.

Spoons swim in cold gravy water

with bits in it I won’t name.

I wipe the table with an old sock

and sit down anyway.

What can I do at 83

with no family left

to look after me

Even the clock won’t tick right,

and I don’t fix it.

Not anymore.

It ticks when it wants.

Like me.

Yet here I stay all alone

till the day they bury me.

It’s sad when you ain’t got no one god bless her ❤️