It's Still Life

The Architecture of a Moment

A Response Poem (numbered vignettes)

I.
The woman across the street won’t speak to me.
She called the Norwegians up the road “towel heads.”
Every straw has its camel’s back,
and that was mine.

II.
The family next door have a new electric car.
Their old one vanished in a puff of oily smoke
as the tow truck dragged it away.
The new one is towed off too,
it refuses to start most mornings.

III.
The next house has seven cats
who shit in my garden.
I hiss pssssst at them
when they nose my potted plants.

IV.
The Polish house is Portuguese now.
The Polish family live in Switzerland
and send us a Christmas card every year.
We won’t be home this year.

V.
And then there’s Roy.
A pilot still —
once a pilot, always a pilot, he says.
He lost his driving licence this year;
he can’t see past his arm.
Roy doesn’t fly anymore.

VI.
Next is Bob. Eighty-something.
Says his black hair is natural.
When his grandchildren visit,
he checks himself into a hotel.

VII.
Nigel lives beside us. Retired electrician.
He fixed the wiring
when our front-door light exploded.
He fixes everyone’s electrics.
Nigel is retired.

All the neighbours remain the same.
No one has moved away.
We raised children
who raised children,
and now we are all
grandparents on the same street.

Image Alt Text: A rain-soaked English cul-de-sac in black and white, with old brick houses, bare winter trees, slick cobblestones, and a lone figure walking in the distance. Written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge. Poems/prose, some AI/images ©Misky 2006-2025.