by Julia Webb

My shrivelled sausage fingers
grope for forks in greasy water,
eyes to the front, no choice but to look
as I wash up breakfast, lunch.
Half-naked bodies dart across
the rectangular view of next door’s kitchen;
Pink Hair and Music-Pump Testosterone
vie for a place at the gas cooker hood,
A curl of smoke lips the slatted fence,
bottles clunk and rattle into the recycling bin.
I picture life behind the slats:
the steamed up bathroom, a broken couch.