At home on Sunday

He sits and has his tea,
a nice salad,
crunchy,
seeing if he can taste the difference.
His wife of thirty years
hangs from the ceiling with
a rope made from his best tie,
brought for his birthday.
Her swaying in the breeze makes
a creaking nose which comforts him
as he sips a freshly brewed cup of tea.
Her face is white rather
then blue
suggesting
a
quick
ending.
No dancing feet or
tongue bursting for air.
Moving away from the table,
he wonders if today
will be the day
that neighbours
call.