43 Shell Lane

All she had wanted was a place to live
underneath. At night the streetlights would glow
tint the roof rosy and her right hand would reach;
stretch out fingertips as if to touch the smooth ceiling, careful
not to disturb the numbing head on her left shoulder.

Today the blood moves freely to fingers
which worry the paper label on a new set of keys.
She will, of course, lie still again, watch streetlight
creep round curtain edge. But not reach up.
Even without Artex this new carapace is rough.