The old lady next door
Used to bury her milk
Her head down, covered with
A brown silk scarf.
Full fat milk and the cheapest bread.
We used to sit
By the sun bleached, lichen spotted fence
Trading pinches and competitively spitting
in the cool, tree guarded darkness.
Spying on her.
She was always the Enemy.
And when she died. As she did.
I lay in bed and thought
Of the worms eating her
Slowly taking her away – as they surely took the bread.