Plot

The boy next door is plotting to take over the street,
he holds his mug like a mother
and chats to me about ousting Blair
computer screen savers and charity clothing appeals.

He lays down a line of credit cards,
offers to treat me to a haircut,
lunch at the market,
an hour at the spice stall with the man
who can't stop whistling.

He has not closed his curtains for weeks,
he has them all down pat,
he and the mirror make a mockery of mimicry.
He knows what time the lights go out,
if they let the chicken carcass rot or boil.

In the cupboard under his stairs
between the dust pan and brush
and a pile of broken faced plates
he keeps a list:
number 64, use too much bleach
number 7, get take away every Tuesday and love to watch Live Aid
number 91, change the locks every other week.

I leave him and his pin and needle limbs
mapping the months of the street,
and as I close the door
wonder if he's the only member of the watch.