Ground Floor Flat
Miss Kibbens, eighty-four, cat lover (no pets allowed);
white-gold hair braided, haloed about her head,
heaves cast iron pot from scullery shelf
on to boisterous gas burner
to boil fish heads and bits from Mr Sole,
fishmonger in the square,
odour percolating up flights of stairs.
Her garden of straggly grass and wildflowers
is host to a restaurant of strays
all competing for the best dish.

First Storey - Flat No. 1
Shelley is pretty, young, loves make-up & Brad Pitt;
works on Maltby’s store cosmetics counter,
nails dipped in red-black blood, lips to match,
white coat reminiscent of a hospital;
remedying the ills of slightly older ladies
with pantheons of chemical potions,
necessitating the remortgage of houses.
Her balcony hosts the world’s largest collection
of pot plants in the smallest concreted area,
so she can drink Alco-pop al fresco.

Second Storey - Flat No. 2
Dave—builder, plumber, electrician, cat-hater—
is Jack-of-all-Trades and Jack-the-Lad.
His attractive customers (female) often end up
bottoms up in his lumpy bed, sheets laundered
by Shirley at the local laundrette, Hot Tub,
seething suds and gossip with equal velocity.
His flat reeks of discarded take-aways
rarely taken out to the dustbin downstairs;
his only view of outside—a red-brick wall—
one side of the rancid-fat crisp factory.

Third Storey - Flat No. 3
No one has seen the person who lives here.
The door is scratched, the varnish is peeling
and a fetid mat curls up to woodworm woodwork
in the rank darkness, because the shattered light bulb
has never been changed, banisters dusted, carpet hoovered,
or the key turned in the lock.