The scaffolding is a skeleton around the house

it’s holding us together,
rib after rib of humans, living.

someone is dancing on top of my head,
stomping hearty laughs about the place
as tunes swoon in misty kitchens.

I’m trapped in the underbelly.
In this bog basement
throwing rocks at my reflection in the window

the air curdles round me
the walls are stale, like old bread
the milk in the fridge as sour
as the cat-scratched thoughts in my head

I tiptoe sodden bath mats,
scowl at kitchen-counter crumbs,
I stuff Aretha in my ears
to block out feeling glum
those upstairs chair-scrapes cackle
my vexation bulges out
- quash, zip - done the trick?
I’m stuffing it back down

But then comes… the Thursdays
- dance of the recycling bins!
Watch on, washless user
as fetid juice drips down my shins
my throat cuts off my tongue
before I’m headfirst into fury
”I tried my best, I really did!”
- tell that one to the jury.

the desperate search continues
for a tin-foil silver lining
- at least the rent’s affordable
I’d better stop the whining.