Wooden Castle

The kid who lives upstairs

Is playing the piano again.

When I walk out for breakfast in the morning,

Nimble fingers somewhere above my head

Fill in the gaps of silence.

I go about my routine,

Feeling like the lord of this wooden castle

Creaking doors that fall open and shut

Swollen, jammed windows

Overlay the faded ambience.

I bask in the soot with a cup of tea.

At some point the black mould in the shower

Tells its own story

Of a failure to ever get clean.

With guilt I remove it; death

By bleach or white vinegar

Now the sun has eloped from our window,

Eager to touch

The kid is playing jazz now,

And I’m roasting garlic

In an oven that doesn’t close

The last tenants

Screwed bits of MDF to the sides

That you can turn to hold the door in;

It’s a touch of home.

The music my parents played

Before winter dinners

The scrappy cupboards my dad built

From the same material, same fixtures.