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A sickly fluro globe lightly lit the room
Hit the dust the sun could no longer touch
The drapes were drawn: She'd drawn to
a close.
He still lived there but never altered
much.
Wished she'd but the lounge some plastic
coverings
Though plastic pillows aren't as soft
to clutch.
The room caught ill from the seasick light.
Showing up the mould: spewing into his
head
Creating huge ugly stains that clearly
were not there
Disgusting dirty covers sticking to the
bed
Us Rellies checked on him once every three
weeks
Mostly just to check he wasn't dead.
He realised He should've cleaned things
up while She was still around
Meanwhile Her body turned to dirt in a
coffin underground.
HER Did you put the rubbish out?
HIM Nah, I didn't. Somehow it's out already.
HER Who do you think did that? The garbage
fairies?
HIM Fetch a cup of tea, Dear?
HER Yes, Love
Her eyes turned grey twelve years before
her hair
She'd worked their problems through in
retail therapy
The shops said, "Be content with your
domestic drill.
Even if he is out drilling his secretary."
So she'd put up with his rambling nearly
every other evening:
"Shut up now, Dear, and drink your cup
of tea."
He realised He should've cleaned things
up while She was still around
Meanwhile Her body turned to dirt in a
coffin underground.
Underground
He cleaned his clothes the night before
And then he swept the patio floor
The dishes were done and put away
Pool filter cleaned during the day
Plastic flowers everywhere
His body weight centred in his chair
He carefully evacuated his bowel
Used his last piece of paper towel
After waging his final war on grime
He closed his eyes: He'd done his time.
(This is the bit where you're supposed
to find out where he goes.
But that's the thing, Dear, no-one really
knows...)
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