Peepshow
Rush hour
trains often burrow
through Somerset
at the far end of Mrs White's garden.
She can
be found most mornings
smoking
between the Clematis and the wood hut.
One of these days
she'll develop an intercity tumour.
Every
Tuesday she crucifies
her washing
before an incarcerated audience
of bread makers, cocktail shakers,
web designers
and street corner tin rattlers.
Also the
photography student,
wide-eyed observer,
carrying fields of lavender
or perhaps rows of terraced houses
inside giant floppy portfolios.
Many will
choke
on pre-packed raspberry muffins
or rise to the inevitable occasion
after
catching a glimpse
of Mrs White's red stockings
pole dancing around the clothes prop.
Copyright © 2001 Paul K Henry
