Lonely Lady

I’ve only ever spied her 

Dressed in a nightie.

Rose or eggshell blue, 

Depending on which one is dirty.

In front of the flat screen she perches 

On a no-frills dining chair.

Grappling the TV remote she searches,

Out of tune to my peeping stares.

Her neck cocked upwards to catch the transmission

Mouth agape, hardly changing position.

Albeit when shuffling back and forth from the kitchen

Walking stick in hand to aid each mission. 

The milk stays out all day

At arms reach for cup after cup of tea

Plus all those involuntary swigs

Surely it’s tepid come a quarter past three?

Oh, I hear her talking…

Great, she must have a visitor!

Wait, she’s chastising the cat-

Frustration as to why her life is lonely and insular.

I wonder if she has any family?

I wonder if she’s struggled to bury tragedy?

I wonder if she’s ever loved?

Or been loved?

Or indulged in things that bring her joy and vitality?

I wonder where she goes in her dreams?

I wonder how long she’s lived in front of the TV?

Rear Window, Alfred Hitchcock

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