The Bedsit

with greasy stains from vagrant cooks,
a dish-pile, the sticky linoleum,
a deadly kettle, microwave,
the roofs and caterwauling backyards
that hogged the skyline's frame;
and former tenant, opportunely there
collecting bags of odds and ends
advising getting out (not in) -
escape the antics next door
at all hours through paper walls.

I woke to leaking gas that first night;
a panic of phone-calls - the gasman
reassured and blamed the perchloroethylene
(a lethal seep of rising vapour)
then left, advocating open windows.

The schizoid hash-head opposite
came calling, throwing words up
like fireworks fizzing into sound:
a paranoid tirade at drops of blood
in bathroom sink; accusing thrusts
of chin and finger - the second split
when head hit head with goat-hard butt,
and jolt in snorting doorway slammed.

Outside, the Seven Sisters road
is slashing wrists of arterial traffic,
while someone writhes on threadbare floors.
An empty whiskey bottle rocks and rolls
to metal decibels thundering walls;
and Kapitanos, dragged from dry cleaning,
unsure of entry, hangs below,
then edges forward, venturing: "who are you?"