In this poem, I was trying to emulate a nosey neighbour who has no feelings. 

 

 

Matilda collects the noises of her street.                                                               

The 6am explosion of Mintball Joes Morris Minor,

kick starting Alexandra Road into life,

causing Willy Wombats whippet to bark with fear

 

Aggie Platt’s radio blares, she coos along

to Vera Lynne whilst thinking of Soldier Jim,

regaling her with tales of shots worthy of a fanfare

she fantasises  about polishing his blazer brass buttons.

The very thought causes the air to crackle and buzz.

 

Polly McGinty’s parrot, Judy, squawks bemoaning

the loss of Punch, her partner in parrot crime.

 She bobs on her perch in time to the bang, crash

wallop of Billy’s drum at number eight, unaware

his drumsticks are completely out of beat.

 

The silence of number thirteen causes Matilda

to shiver. Her false teeth on edge, her spine rigid and tense.

The sunflower curtains are pulled tight with grief.

Matilda hasn’t been to pay her respects, her world is safe

full of hullabaloo.

 

Well you can’t collect silence, can you?