Every Sunday, your soap opera’s weekly omnibus ;
winning the council flat,
battling the filth left by a procession of slatternly tenants
like exorcizing a stubborn demon.
So my telephone imagination
expects a plain face to a tuneless voice,
but beside the front door geraniums and herbs cling
to the upper story’s cliff face,
inside your rooms wear a bespoke suit’s grey and white chic,
finished with baroque flourishes.
Now I understand your niggling pain,
that this home’s tenancy might be withdrawn
like a Greek god’s favour.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be
pleased to hear them.