Life in a New Flat.
Use the bell, the letting agent said
and she did, squeezing the button
at the centre of the grooved door.
Light and spacious, the letting agent said
but the stairwell was dark as a womb.
She worried about falling.
'Ah, Ophelia, how do you do,' the letting agent said,
or at least his silhouette plugging the slippage
to her new world. 'Please come in.
Would you like a chair?'
Ophelia wasn't listening to what the letting agent said.
Smooth white walls, soft carpets and, down below,
London's towers shining. Her cocoon.
Somewhere to grow.
'And here's the kitchenette,' the letting agent said,
'Clean and modern, just what you'll need
in the, er, months ahead. The piece de resistance,
I think you'll agree, is the fridge. Do come and see.
'It's American, you know, the last word in food
preservation technology....' Holding open the freezer door,
he froze. His face went green,
which was the same colour as what remained of
the ice cream tub inside, left by the last lodger
and now lodged in by another family. Flies.
Flies and their children and their children's
children. Baby flies, unborn flies, all clinging hopefully
to life and now all celebrating the possibilities afforded
by the chance opening of a freezer door.
'Where's the bathroom?' the letting agent said.
If you've any comments on his poem, Geraint Jones
would be pleased to hear from you.