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Is Dead

Is dead.
That’s the part
you heard,
those words
through the gap
between door
and frame.

Who’s dead?
or what?
the dog?
Uncle, Auntie,
Grandfather?
The old biddy next door
whose nose
spied through curtains?

Curiosity
like some virus
bit into you,
and your ears
lingered by the gap,
your eyes peered
at the adults talking,
lip reading unsuccessfully.

You torn
between the call
of nature (to piss)
and the needing
to know unfolding
of who had died.

Shame,
he was much loved,
the voices continued,
the ears flapping
for further news,
standing on tiptoe,
the bladder filling
to busting.

The King is dead,
long live the Queen,
Grandmother said,
circa 1952,
and you giving in
to nature’s call,
walked off satisfied
along the dark hall.

poem by Terry Collett
Added by Poetry Lover
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