Seven Spring Street, Serena Smith slumbers
serenely, snores slightly. Simon stirs,
snuffles, still sleeps.
Next-door, naughty nightied Norma Norris
nuzzles naked Norman; nudge-nudge!
Serena stirs, stretches; Simon still
sleeps, shifts slightly.
Serena slipper-steps sideways silently,
soaks, showers, sings sadly, softly; Sunday
sunshine shines strongly.
Brown-brick bungalowed Bertie Brannigan
breakfasts, belligerent, blue-faced. “Bloody
bins banging, beagles barking; blasted
brats! Bugger!”
Simon Smith stirs, stretches, shits,
showers, shaves, slips-on shorts, slacks, socks,
shoes, soccer-shirt, slams screen, strolls
somewhere. Serena sighs.
Serena’s siblings smile sadly, shrug
sympathetically, simultaneously; Sarah says
Simon’s selfishly shitty.
Jennifer Jones jogs jauntily, jugs
jiggling.
Sleazy Simon Smith stares steadily, smirks
salaciously.
Churchbells chime, churchgoing children
cycle, chattering cheerfully.
Roundy Reverend Robinson rests, rubs rope,
resumes rapid ringing.
Sally Sanderson slips-on simple sexy silk
skirt; she’s seeing Simon secretly. She shines
shoes, slaps suncream, sends Sally-Sue
Sunday-schoolwards. Simon slips-in side-gate
silently, scratching slightly suspicious
sore.
Mandy Morris makes mojitos, mixing Morgan,
muddler-mashing mint. Mmmmm!
Serena suspects Sally sometimes; she
sniffles, smiles sadly. Still, Saturday she’ll shag
Sandra’s sexy Spanish schoolteacher Silvio.
Sod Simon!
Bong, bong, bloody bells! Belligerent
Bertie Brannigan breaks, bashes bin-banging boys,
brutally batters Brenda. Brenda’s badly
bruised, bewildered.
Down Dingly-dell, David Dawson destroys
daisies, dandelions, digs double drills;
dreaming damsons, dill, dates, dewberries.
Alfie Anderson’s allotment’s amazing; all
artichokes, avacados, asparagus and
aubergines. Awesome!
Patrick Parkinson peruses papers; “piffle,
poppycock! Petrina, pour port, please!”
Petrina Parkinson pours perfectly;
Patrick’s pretty pleased, pats Petrina’s puppies’ pelts
playfully.
Mandy mutters, makes more Morgan-mix
mojitos.
Passing patrolling policeman plods, peers;
presses pager.
Bullhorn blares, Brenda’s bleeding,
bawling; Bertie blusters.
Angled against Alfie Anderson’s Austin
Allegro, Andy asks again, angrily.
“Sandra, still staying? Sure?”
Sandra sulks, sobs.
Andy ambles away awkwardly.
Serena’s step-daughter Sandra stumbles,
stilletoed, short-skirted, slams screen. She’ll
stay, surely; suburban Spring Street simply
suits Sandra Smith, strangely
