A Window

A Window

Creased net curtains
with stocking details –

old man’s smoked glass –
a soiled two-way mirror

His fag-stubbed ashtray
brims high with butts

Half-read thrillers
sit sliced by bookmarks

Yesterday’s puzzle –
cold clues unsolved

Ink stains his skin –
a love deeply carved

She remains in him –
his beloved strife

He is now alone –
a Brighton still life

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.