The Cream Curtains

The Cream Curtains

The cream curtains the colour of buses in the South of England
Are drawn and retired, behind or rather in front, the wilted
Pepper plant, its fruit shrivelled like the hearts of pensioners
Almost finished, the neglect telling, the leaves once green and
Fresh, now brittle and forgotten, the bus replete with analogies
Drives past the window sill while from inside the secondhand
Maria Callas reaches in shakey cassette tape the high note
In one of those operas by someone, Puccini's or was it Rossini’s?
The potted plant at a distance of a few centimetres from the red
Peppers has a single composite flower struggling like the woman
To keep her head above water in the home where hope has dried
Out, the mixed metaphor like a pill for a case that is now terminal.