ThursdayIII August

Urban Kicks

A suburban house,
No.6 Magnolia Way.
Red brick with bay windows.
Tidy front garden.
Clipped privet.
Short grass.
A neat, gravel path.

It's 5pm on Monday.
Commuters will soon start to trickle back.
A man stands on the tree-lined pavement.
Watching No.6.

Kids kick a ball between parked cars.
A dog barks in someone's empty sitting room.
Listless surburban sounds:
Flotsam on the city's distant pound.

He steps up to the path.
The window of No.6 holds his reflection.
Behind him he can see:
Bright bonnets, multi-coloured doors
and wheely bins.
He stands watching the window.

The light's are off and the TV's on.
The room's filled with an unearthly blue.
Across the ceiling moves a jerky, kaleidoscopic flow.
The tail end of day time TV shows.

The man takes off his shoes and socks.
In his bare feet he creeps.
Edging across damp grass to stand below the window.
He steals a peek.
Then quickly turns and goes.