In a small terraced house

In a small terraced house
a woman waits through a long night.
She boils a kettle, washes cups,
palms three tangerines
to see if she remembers how to juggle.

The living room’s reflected in the yard –
a sideboard hovers on the tiny pond,
her piano juts across the lane.
She’s out there too, standing in the hedge,
wonders is it her ghost that waits inside.

Upstairs he lies soaked in pain
but still, the doctor doesn’t come.
2am. 4.30. 5.15. She phones again –
a busy night, they say. They’re on their way.
She goes upstairs to sit with him
...