The Watcher

There’s a budgie hanging from the old man’s ear,  
pecking at a skin tag pendulum beneath his eye.  
The ladies brittle frame is wired with stronger steel,  
her darned stocking legs,protrude from the thread worn,  
giant’s chair.  
The house is old, cold, cacti fight for survival  
in pools of condensation on window sills that  
miss the scrape of sandpaper and the gild of gloss.  
Four bars hiss as gas gets consumed;  
only serving to melt the soles of upturned slippers.  
In close proximity camphorated oil  
warms to its nightly application.  

The watcher loves the watched,  
he understands affection is currency,  
spent on echoes of children gone before.  
Regardless he squeezes hard against steel  
and rests his head on a cardigan perch.  
 
Two plumes of smoke, stream and splutter into the air,  
one born of cigarette the other, solder.  
The man peers over taped rimmed glasses,  
through an eye piece,  
into the circuit of an unwanted radio.  
Items lie in waiting, petrol tank and urn, both requiring gold leaf  
and a steady hand.  
Separated by smoke and tales of asthmatic repercussions,  
the lady sits in the adjoining room.  
Reading light poised over the latest library card choice,  
she smiles and redirects a tear with the touch of a finger  
as the author’s words invoke raw emotion.  
 
The watcher loves the watched;  
he understands needing to be apart, together,  
the pleasure of repair and the presence of ink and paper.  
Affection unneeded, faces, long studied and hands held.  
 
Scribbled carbon lines,  
crumpled petals scattered on bed linen.  
The man is hunched over gentle strings and headstocks,  
with a pencil behind his ear.  
Separated by time and a devil driving delivery,  
his wife traces lines for number games  
and things tactile to touch.  
The man’s youth is framed by the door;  
he glances in rooms discussed before,  
a light smile twitches into place as he lingers.  
 
The watched loves the watcher;  
he understands the fleeting image he has surveyed,  
the detail that today is shelved for tomorrow’s recollection.  
Affection is given and taken, full and unrestricted  
with a little left in store to banish echoes, when required.