194 – Spinster

Poem number 194
.
Spinster
.
It’s four pm and Countdown’s on, a steaming cup of tea
In a china cup with saucer, and a cat upon her knee
The house is scrubbed and perfect, daily dusting is the law
But now the light from Countdown shows a crumb upon the floor
And she doesn’t move to fix it, doesn’t move to brush the mat
Doesn’t tut in pure frustration, doesn’t mutter at the cat,
For her heart – so fiercely guarded with a wall of pure disdain,
Never given to another, never broken nor in pain –
That heart so independent has just voted now to leave
In the middle of the afternoon, and nobody will grieve
For there’s no-one else who’ll notice that she’s sitting in her chair
With her silent eyes still staring though her brain’s no longer there
There’ll be no-one ’til next Tuesday when the postman rings the bell
And notices the cloud of flies and smells that awful smell
So for now she sits there stiffly, by her final cup of tea
As the Countdown clock ticks downward on her elderly TV
Whilst the crumb down on the carpet, unmolested, rests in peace
And her heart, so long imprisoned, can rejoice in sweet release.

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