A month gone
since you spoke to anyone
not a checkout robot.
Unexpected item
in the living area –
you put the kettle on.
Indeed,
it gives you pause
to mark yourself unmissed,
alone with your operas
– Farscape, Galactica, Blake –
and no idea what happened.
When did everyone disperse?
Was it after that new father
passed out in his car?
You assume that the breeders
paired off and the bailout
shut their silos.
Or was it that
you blacked out once
too often? No one said it
to your face. They left you
with the spectres you detect
from time to time,
the white-smoke silhouettes
losing definition in the mist
of your malignant shame.
Now, the kettle starts to
cough, and you remember her –
the woman in that dream.
Skeleton found
in her tower-block flat.
Debits collected direct.
Until money ran out
and a bill went unmet,
no one called.
You scald the pot
and light the first
of many cigarettes.
It’s time for tea
and Christmas cake
on Terminal with Servalan.
The Cabinet of Heed 