Artist in residence

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that this home’s tenancy might be withdrawn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.