Of Mice and Moths and Whining Taps
 
To cower in the kitchen
is to deny the power within.
That smudging line running along
the glasses frame was the frame.
There was nothing behind the box.
 
The oatflakes were the mountain
for the Indian Meal Moth
but the heaves of horror and loss
were made good, twice over,
by the Unseen Hand. Thank you.
 
Coming from above, I heard it,
air locking, looking down the pipe
as I flushed. So I opened the tap,
like a chess player of occasional
skills, making my move, mate.
 
The man will come here soon
and put the sound into his toolbox
and I will enjoy my silence
in the bathroom, in every room.
More obstacles on the course of life.

Susan Wilson

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susan Wilson would be pleased to hear them.